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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26500759">Spies Are Forever: New Beginnings</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notmarysue/pseuds/Notmarysue'>Notmarysue</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Fix-It, M/M, Mild Angst, Mild Blood, Mild Language, Slow Burn, Spies &amp; Secret Agents</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 12:47:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>43,125</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26500759</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notmarysue/pseuds/Notmarysue</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Back in the field for the first time since the death of his partner, Agent Curt Mega is ready to get his life back on track. But when his supposedly simple mission spirals out of control, he's forced to work together with his enemy, proving to both of them that starting again is never as easy as it seems.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Owen Carvour/Agent Curt Mega</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>221</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>141</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. A Warm Welcome</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Special thanks to everyone on Tumblr who boosted my confidence to write this. Extra special thanks to Tumblr user 'greathairandbadchoices', who inspired elements of this AU's concept.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Mission number: 39251</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Name: Curt Mega</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Status: Recently reactivated</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Welcome back.</strong>
</p>
<p>The warm night air hung heavy and quiet over the city of Budapest. Even in the middle October, the weather was hot and still, but the slight breeze that blew from the docks offered small comfort to the suited man wandering around the nearby streets, watching a gathering gang of criminals from a distance.</p>
<p>Curt swore he’d never go back into the field. It was no good for him, no better for the people he worked with. Still, he’d sworn so many things throughout his lifetime and stuck to barely any of them, so trying to hold himself to anything felt like a lost cause. Maybe if he got back to work, his life would go back to normal. He could go back to helping people, back to making a difference. It would almost be like he never met-</p>
<p><strong><em>Focus</em></strong>.</p>
<p>Three men waited on the docks, making no attempt to make themselves hidden. Everyone knew not to interfere, the mission files made that painfully clear. One man, a tall fellow dressed in beige, paced back and forth while the other two hung back close to a stack of wooden boxes. Curt couldn’t blame them for growing impatient. Their contact was late and even he was growing bored. At least the distant conversation of the two men near the boxes was providing some entertainment as the pair bickered about their position in their strange ‘company’. Maybe he should start packing a book for these sorts of things.</p>
<p>Finally, their contact showed up. He approached the group, briefcase in hand, with little care for his own safety. Either he was extremely stupid or more relaxed than Curt could ever hope to be, and he wasn’t sure which was potentially more dangerous for his mission. He was placed a hand firmly on his gun and started to sneak towards the docks. No matter what happened, he couldn’t leave without either the bomb or the man in beige. Preferably both. There wasn’t room to mess. Not this time.</p>
<p>He stopped in his tracks at the sound of a yell. For a split second he thought the man in beige had turned on his contact and attacked, going back on whatever deranged deal they’d made, but when he looked over the contact was still alive and as happy as ever. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying the situation he found himself in. Instead, it appeared that the two bickering men had escalated their heated conversation. One laid dead on the ground as the other twirling a razor between his fingers and proudly approached his boss. For a brief moment Curt thought these actions must have impressed the man in beige as he placed a reassuring arm the newly emerged murderer’s shoulder, but the moment of comfort didn’t last as the man in beige plunged a knife into his employee’s neck. Now two men were dead, and exchange still hadn’t taken place. Curt supposed they didn’t call the man in beige the deadliest man alive for no reason.</p>
<p>He had to move. He had to move now. God, why was moving so hard? He used to be able to infiltrate much bigger, much more dangerous, organisations without fear. Why did this one feel so different?</p>
<p>Before Curt had time to further consider it, he was brought back to reality by another sound. Not screaming this time, but the sound of quiet footsteps heading towards the dock. So quiet that an untrained ear would never pick up on them. He looked up at the shadow of a woman climbing down the fire escape of a nearby building. Curt raised an eyebrow. He recognised a person on a mission, even under the cloak of darkness. His lips were moving before he had a chance to think and the words were out before he could stop them.</p>
<p>“Hey.” He whispered. The woman showed no reaction. Her eyes were fixed on the briefcase.</p>
<p>“Hey. What are you doing?” He whispered again, more urgently this time, though part of him already knew what she was doing. She was getting in his way. This time she must have heard him, because she instantly decided to speed up her plan, dashing towards the surviving pair of men like lightening. She snatched the briefcase out of the contacts hand before anybody had a chance to react, leaving the man in beige fumbling for his gun. Autopilot took over Curt’s mind and he fired a shot into the back of the man’s legs. He yelled out, half in pain, half in frustration, but he only stumbled before regaining his footing.</p>
<p>“What the-“ The man spun round and focused his eyes on Curt, but he’d already taken off running after the briefcase. “You.” He grumbled.</p>
<p>“Oh heck no. I’m not dealing with this. Not on date night.” Said the contact as he grabbed another, smaller box, and took off running into the night.</p>
<p>“Get back here.” The man in beige shouted, but he made no attempt to chase him. Neither did Curt. The contact was no relevant. All that was relevant was the briefcase.</p>
<p>The woman made her way back up the fire escape with the speed of jaguar. Curt struggled to keep up, painfully aware that he was being followed. The man in beige may have been slowed by the bullet in his leg, causing a trial of blood to mark the path of the newly formed chase. The woman jumped across the roof tops, leaping without having to stop for a second to calculate. Two shots rang through the air from the man in beige’s gun, but the came no where near Curt or the woman. For a moment, Curt thought he’d got lucky and was running from a terrible shot, but then he remembered the files. The man in beige, or the deadliest man alive as he was better known, was a master in all things violent from shooting to strangulation. These were no accidental misses; they were warning shots. He shook his head. There was no time stop. He kept running. He kept jumping.</p>
<p>
  <strong>
    <em>Do not stop.</em>
  </strong>
</p>
<p>Two more shots rang out, this time flying over the heads of Curt and the woman. This was the final warning, of that Curt was sure. He took a momentary glance back at his assailant. The man in beige’s jumps were far less graceful than the woman’s. Heck, somehow they were even less graceful than his, and he was no gymnast. Furthermore, he was slowing down. His leg injury was small, but the blood loss was making a difference. If he could just keep running-</p>
<p>He ground to a halt. The upcoming jump was bigger than the others, much bigger, and the drop was sheer. The woman jumped without issue, gliding across to the next rooftop and leaping another two roofs to the left. Curt gulped as he looked down. Why did he look down? He balled up his fists and took a deep breath.</p>
<p>
  <strong>
    <em>Come on. You can do this.</em>
  </strong>
</p>
<p>He stood frozen.</p>
<p>
  <strong>
    <em>It won’t happen again.</em>
  </strong>
</p>
<p>His started to shake as he tried to breath.</p>
<p>
  <strong>
    <em>It won’t happen to you.</em>
  </strong>
</p>
<p>A gunshot broke him out of his trance. The woman, and with her the briefcase and its explosive content, was gone. Lost in the night. There was no chance of finding her, not now. The man in beige on the other hand was still an imminent threat. The bullet whizzed passed his left ear, barely clipping him. The blood loss was affecting his aim, but not by much. Curt turned around.  The man had stopped a few meters away, staying as far away from each side of the edge as possible. His gun was aimed firmly at his head, his hands unwavering.</p>
<p>“Stay where you are.” The man snapped.</p>
<p>“Go on, shoot me. What good will that-“ The man fired before he could finished speaking. Curt dropped to the ground, using his hands to stop himself fully falling onto his face, and pushed herself into a push up position. He was so glad for the things Barb, Susan, and Cynthia had drilled into him, no matter how stupid their drills seemed at the time.</p>
<p>“Out of bullets I believe.” Curt smirked.</p>
<p>“Stupid warning shots.” The man in beige muttered. “Should have just killed you straight off.”</p>
<p>“Shouldn’t you be going after her?” Curt asked.</p>
<p>“I’ll find her again.” Said the man as he placed his gun back in his holster. “You, however, are in my way. I can’t have that.” He took out his knife and started to approach. Curt grabbed his gun and took aim. The words of his brief repeated clearly in his mind.</p>
<p>“We need the suspect alive.”</p>
<p>He shot the man’s foot in the same leg he’d hit before. The man fell to his knees, crying out in pain. Curt rushed over and kicked the knife away, making sure to keep his eyes and gun on the man.</p>
<p>“You’re going to pay for this.” The man grumbled.</p>
<p>“Sure. Send me the bill.” Curt retorted, as he balled up his fist and punched the man in the face, allowing him to crumple onto the ground unconscious. Curt glanced into the night, seeing if he could spot any sign of the woman. None could be found. He sighed and reached for his walkie talkie.</p>
<p>“Hey command, good news and bad news. The bad news is, I lost the bomb. The good news is, I’m back.” He looked at the man on the floor. Something about him felt so familiar. He shook his head. “And I’m not alone."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Interrogation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>With the deadliest man alive finally in custody, Curt and Cynthia try to get their plans back on track, but getting what they want never comes without a price.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I can't believe A.S.S HQ and Doctor Baron Von Nazi are things that are canon that I now have to write repeatedly.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dragging the unconscious man in beige back to America proved to be a lot more problematic than Curt would have liked, especially considering he kept periodically not being unconscious. He kicked and spat and wriggled, nearly making his way free of his restraints several times. Luckily, Barb had far more effective ways of keeping some down. After Curt, Barb, and two crew members sustained scratches trying to pin him to the ground so they could safely inject him, they managed to get him to sleep long enough to reach A.S.S HQ.</p><p>“Well Curt, I don’t know whether to hit you or thank you.” Cynthia sighed before taking a puff of her cigarette. The two of them sat opposite each other at a corner table in a dark windowless room with concrete walls that sat several layers underground in A.S.S HQ. The man in beige, still unconscious, sat tied to a chair on the other side of the room with his hands behind his back. They’d made doubly sure to secure him this time., though security waited outside of the room regardless, just in case.</p><p>“I suppose you could do both.” Curt shrugged as he took a sip of the coffee that the guards had placed in front of him and Cynthia.</p><p>“On the one hand you managed to somehow lose the bomb to God knows who.”</p><p>“I didn’t just ‘lose’ it. I was being shot at.” Curt scowled. “Besides, it’s not God knows who. It’s probably the Russians. Apart from the occasional Nazis and that one guy from Mumbai, who was definitely an exception, it’s always the Russians.”</p><p>“Yes, well that really narrows it down. Which brings us to him.” Cynthia pointed at the tied-up man with her cigarette. “The deadliest man alive. Now what would he be wanting a bomb for?”</p><p>“He’s an assassin. I feel like the use is slightly self-explanatory.”</p><p>“He’s not an assassin, Mega, he’s a murderer.” She said, taking another puff of her cigarette. A small groan escaped the man’s lips as he began to stir. Cynthia stubbed out her cigarette in the ash tray on the table and got to her feet. Curt obediently followed suit. “But I guess we can ask him ourselves, can’t we?”</p><p>From the moment he began to wake up, the deadliest man alive knew he was somewhere he didn’t want to be. Normally he was the one stood above the chair in the windowless room and he had no desire to engage in any sort of role reversal. The ropes rubbed against his wrists, burning his skin as he slammed his hands into the back of the wooden chair. It was no good. He was trapped.</p><p>“Good morning.” An annoyingly cheery male voice greeted. His eyes focused on Curt. He looked so much worse under the artificial light. His black beard was wiry and unmaintained, his skin was slightly red, presumably from years of heavy drinking, and while his face wore a cocky smile his eyes remained lightless. It was a lot harder to act without the thrill of the chase. “How’s that leg doing?”</p><p>“Thirty-three dollars. Thirty-seven cents.” The deadliest man alive answered.</p><p>“What?” Curt asked, the confusion instantly knocking the grin from his face.</p><p>“The bill. Thirty-three dollars. Thirty-seven cents. Your little stunt ruined a good pair of shoes. I can probably fix the trousers, but it’ll take some cleaning to get that blood out.”</p><p>“Mega, what is he whittling on about?” Asked Cynthia.</p><p>“Well-“</p><p>“Don’t worry, Mega, I won’t hold you to it.” The deadliest man alive interrupted. “Save your money for a razor. Maybe then you’ll finally shave. It looks like some sort of rodent died on your face.”</p><p>“Insult me as much as you like, buddy, but I’m not the one tied to a chair.” Curt replied.</p><p>“I’m not insulting you. I’m just making a friendly suggestion.” The deadliest man alive grumbled. “And I’m not your buddy.”</p><p>“Do you have a name?”</p><p>“Of course I have a name.” He snarled.</p><p>“Don’t go playing games with us. What’s your name?” Asked Cynthia.</p><p>“Michael.”</p><p>“Michael what?” She huffed.</p><p>“Michael…” Shit. He’d never got this far before. Most people he dealt with either knew not to ask questions or were dead before any came up. He scanned the room in a blind panic for some sort of help. “Cornertable.”</p><p>“Michael Cornertable? Really? That’s the best you can do?” Asked Curt.</p><p>“I don’t normally work with such short notice. Besides, it doesn’t really matter. It’s not like I’ve left a paper trial.”</p><p>“So, Mike-“</p><p>“Michael.” Michael corrected.</p><p>“So, Michael. About that bomb.”</p><p>“What bomb?”</p><p>“You know what bomb.” Cynthia snapped. “The one that you lost.”</p><p>“The one Mega lost you mean.” Michael smirked.</p><p>“Come on, buddy. We’re both in the same boat here.” Said Curt.</p><p>“No, love, you’re not even in the boat. You’re about five miles back in the middle of the ocean.” Michael leaned back as far as he could, giving an air of calm compliancy. “I know exactly where the bomb is. It’s where I need it.”</p><p>“And where’s that, Michael?” Asked Curt. Michael didn’t respond. He joined his lips into a smile and looked away. “Michael, it’s going to be so much easier for you if you cooperate.”</p><p>“Or else what? You gonna torture it out of me, love?” Said Michael, turning his attention back to Curt.</p><p>“Absolutely not. A true American spy would never stoop to such levels.” Curt announced as he took a step back, leaving Cynthia front of centre. “I can’t speak for her, however.”</p><p>“Now listen here you little shit.” Cynthia snapped, slamming her hands onto Michael’s legs. Michael unvoluntary flinched before regaining composure and scowling. Cynthia lowered her voice to a near whisper. “I don’t have time for your crap today. You’re a highly disliked man with a lot of enemies trapped in a dark room. Now we try our best to provide safety for our prisoners, but everyone makes mistakes, Michael. Even us. So, if something were to accidentally happen to you, well we couldn’t really be held reasonable for that now, could we? Now tell me, what do you mean the bomb is where you need it?”</p><p>“Oh Cynthia, you’ve still got that flair for the dramatic, haven’t you?” Michael smirked. Cynthia straightened herself out and stepped back.</p><p>“How did you-“</p><p>“He means you’ve been tricked.” A new voice, a woman Russian accent, answered from the doorway. Everyone’s attention was pulled towards it. In the open doorway stood a familiar figure, much clearer now that she wasn’t unobscured by the shadow of night. “You American’s are so easy to fool. You always try and interfere in our exchanges. Get someone to steal the bomb, less interference, no need to pay.” She explained.</p><p>“Who are you? How did you get in here?” Cynthia demanded.</p><p>“My name is Tatiana Slozhno. Your doors are flimsy, your codes are weak, and you’re all so wrapped up in yourselves you didn’t even notice me opening the door.”</p><p>“But…the guards?” Added Curt.</p><p>“The guards? Oh yes, they’re fine. They’ll be sleeping for at least five hours. Actually, how much of that coffee did you drink?”</p><p>“Just a sip. Why?”</p><p>“You’re fine. Don’t drink more.” She ordered.</p><p>“O…kay.”</p><p>“What are you doing here?” Asked Michael.</p><p>“As far as Doctor Baron Von Nazi is concerned, saving you.” She explained.</p><p>“Doctor Baron Von Nazi.” Curt laughed. “No way is that a real name.”</p><p>“Real names aren’t important.” Michael scowled.</p><p>“What’s he a doctor of?”</p><p>“Curt, will you please focus.” Cynthia hissed. “And if you can just waltz out of here with-“</p><p>“I said as far as he’s concerned. That doesn’t mean that’s what I’m doing.” Tatiana interrupted.</p><p>“Wow, cheers, Tatiana. Always appreciate your help.” Said Michael, rolling his eyes.</p><p>“It can’t be helped if the Baron’s ‘greatest asset’ got himself captured.” Tatiana grumbled.</p><p>“Am I to take it you know each other then?” Asked Curt.</p><p>“Consider us co-workers.”</p><p>“And if you aren’t here to rescue your ‘co-worker’, why are you here?” Asked Cynthia.</p><p>“To…cooperate. Since my current employer no longer seems like the most secure option, with our only other set of brain cells tied to a chair.” She explained.</p><p>“Again, really appreciate it, Tatiana. Love these little chats.” Said Michael.</p><p>“So, I’m here to help you. In return for a little help from you.”</p><p>“Alright.” Said Curt, pulling up a chair and sitting down. “What do you need?”</p><p>Cynthia crossed her arms and glared at him. Curt cleared his throat and gave her a sheepish smile. She rolled her eyes and let him continue.</p><p>“Full diplomatic immunity. There’s some…things I’m trying to leave behind.”</p><p>“Sure. I’m sure we can manage that. Right, Cynthia.”</p><p>“Don’t push your luck, Mega.” She commanded, narrowing her eyes.</p><p>“Anything else?”</p><p>“Safe passage to America for me and my family. I’m looking for a new life. I’m not planning on going back to the life I knew.” Tatiana added.</p><p>“Fine, fine.” Cynthia waved her arm dismissively. “So, you can return the bomb?”</p><p>“No.” She admitted. “But I know how you can get it back.”</p><p>“Better make it fast, sweetheart. The American’s have short attention spans.” Said Michael.</p><p>“The bomb is supposed to be a distraction. The Baron plans to use it at the Geneva World Peace Gala. I handed it over before it came apparent what happened to my ally here, so it’ll likely already be on its way over there. The explosion will spook the guests and while they’re all flapping around trying to figure out what’s going on, the Prince of the New Democratic Republic of Old Socialist Prussian Sloviskia will be open for capture.”</p><p>“God, I wish they’d come up with a more catchy name. The New Democratic Republic of Old Socialist Prussian Sloviskia is such a mouthful.” Michael huffed.</p><p>“And when everybody eventually turns on the halfwit prince, refusing to provide aid, the Baron will, how you say? Swoop in and lend a hand. In return, the fledgling country will forever be in his debt.”</p><p>“He’s going to be the saviour in his own kidnapping story.” Said Curt.</p><p>“The baron is a man with plenty of ideas, but without the brains of his operation he’ll struggle to carry it out. You get the bomb back; he won’t have the ability to figure out a viable alternative. I can provide co-ordinates, entrance codes, everything you need. A decent spy shouldn’t too much trouble.” She smiled. “You are a decent spy aren’t you, Mega?”</p><p>“Yeah. Yeah, of course. What kind of question is…yeah I’m a great spy.” He laughed nervously. “This whole bomb thing is going to be a walk in the park. Heck I’m ready to go right now. Lets do this.”</p><p>“There’s just one catch.”</p><p>“Of course there is.” Curt let out a deep, tired breath.</p><p>“If everything has gone according to plan the bomb is no longer in the briefcase. It’s in a secure locked box.”</p><p>“I can deal with a locked box, Tatiana.”</p><p>“It involves some sort of new technology. I don’t know it works. All I know is that only two people can open it. The baron and…” Curt followed Tatiana’s eyes back to Michael, who sat beaming ear to ear.</p><p>“Hello.” Michael grinned.</p><p>“Well that’s just great.” Curt grumbled.</p><p>“Now, now, love. I’m not a stubborn man. I’ll help, for my own price.”</p><p>“What the heck could you want?” He scowled.</p><p>“Land.” Said Michael firmly.</p><p>“Land?” Curt raised his eyebrow. “What, you a farmer or something?”</p><p>“Sure, let’s go with that.”</p><p>“Fine. We’ll get you some clean, arable land out in the South.” Said Cynthia.</p><p>“No, no. I already have my eyes on a plot. I was going to trick that stupid baron into handing it over, but like Tatiana here, I know how to analyse a situation, and getting you some dumb bomb seems way easier for my purposes.” Michael explained.</p><p>“Mega, a word.” Cynthia snapped before starting towards the door.</p><p>“Are you going to leave me in here with her?” Michael shouted after her.</p><p>“You’ll live.” Cynthia called back. Curt looked at the pair before rushing out after Cynthia. Cynthia pushed the door shut, leaving Michael and Tatiana inside. She ignored the pair of softly snoring guards as she started to talk. “I won’t lie, I don’t trust that man as far as I can throw him. The woman seems like a valuable asset, but I’m not sure I like the security risk she poses.”</p><p>“So, what’s the plan?” Asked Curt.</p><p>“We’ll find somewhere comfy for Tatiana within HQ. She’ll get what she wants eventually, but I’m not letting her out of here until we have that bomb. We can’t have anyone getting their hands on the Prince. America needs diplomatic relations with the New Democratic Republic of Old Socialist Prussian Sloviskia intact.”</p><p>“Michael’s right. That is a mouthful.” Curt muttered. “What’s so important about the Republic.”</p><p>“Barely anything, but the Russians want him on their side. Keeping him on ours is one of the best ways to fuck them over.”</p><p>“Why they want him?”</p><p>“To fuck us over.”</p><p>“Oh…”</p><p>“I don’t like it but working with Michael seems like our best choice.” Cynthia admitted.</p><p>“Couldn’t we step in during or after the kidnapping. The baron expects the world to turn on the prince, but if we make ourselves the heroes-“</p><p>“Hostage negotiation takes more time and resources than I’m willing to commit, Mega. Preventative measures, that’s what we need.”</p><p>“So, it’s settled then. We’re…trusting Michael.”</p><p>“No, I’m trusting you. You’re going to go with him and make sure he doesn’t pull any shit.” She ordered.</p><p>“Are you serious?” Curt gasped.</p><p>“Deadly.” Cynthia nodded. “Think of it as your welcome back mission.”</p><p>“I thought my last mission was my welcome back mission.”</p><p>“And you fucked it up, just be glad I’m giving you this do over.”</p><p>“I bring you the deadliest man alive and suddenly you decide to pair me up with him?”</p><p>“Now you’re getting it.” Cynthia smiled. “Meet me in my office at zero eight hundred hours.”</p><p>“Eight? That’s so early.” Curt groaned.</p><p>“Fine. Meet me at the crack of…noon, I guess.” She sighed. “Oh, and Curt.”</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“Shave your darn beard. You look a mess.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Google: Biometrics started to come into use throughout the early 2000s.</p><p>Me: Chimera cares not for time.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Skyward</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Stuck together 37,000 feet in the air, Curt and Michael's mission begins.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>IMPORTANT NOTE: While I'm able to get pretty fast updates out at the moment, University is starting again very soon and I'm fully expecting to have a lot to do pretty much immediately, so the updates will likely slow down. So if the quick fire updates to suddenly, don't worry, the fic isn't abandoned. Updates are always on the way.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After an evening of teasing, coaxing, and outright threatening, Curt reluctantly shaved his face clean and packed a small bag of belongings. Just a few small things: clean clothes, toiletries, a few different currencies, and a couple of easily transported weapons. He kept his loaded gun on him, just in case. Cynthia kept her briefing short, with her advice largely consisting of ‘don’t you dare fuck up’, and he was on the runway by 1pm.</p><p>The plane that sat on the runway was small but luxurious, barely big enough to fit ten passengers. Under different circumstances, Curt and Michael would be grateful for their first-class treatment, but both of were growing nauseous as they waited to board. The flight was going to take hours and neither of them were particularly excited to spend that time locked in a little box together.</p><p>“Commandeered from a local celebrity.” Cynthia commented. “Don’t say I never get you anything nice.”</p><p>“Do I get to know which celebrity?” Asked Curt.</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Shouldn’t Barb be here? She loves to get herself involved with these sorts of things. I mean new technology, strange security methods. This is all right up her alley.”</p><p>“Barb won’t be joining you. She has important work to do and you’re what could generously described as a distraction.” Cynthia explained. “Don’t worry, I’ve got technical support and extraction team waiting for you on the other side.”</p><p>“So, I really am alone with him then?”</p><p>“Apart from the pilot and the co-pilot, yes I suppose you are. You’ll be fine, Mega. You’re the best agent I know.” Said Cynthia, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder.</p><p>“Really?” Curt smiled.</p><p>“No, but you can pretend if it helps.”</p><p>Curt grumbled a little and moved away. He looked over to Michael, who was stood sour faced a meter or so away from him. Two guards stood behind him, each with a hand grasped firmly on a shoulder. The ropes had been swapped out for cold, metal handcuffs, though the red marks from where they rubbed remained.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Why can’t they come too?</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>He shook his head. There was no time to show weakness.</p><p>“Last chance to run.” Curt whispered to him.</p><p>“Real funny.” Michael sneered. He looked out over the nearby fields. Curt had a point, once he was on that plane, he was trapped. If he wanted to leave, this could be his one and only opportunity. He looked down. Sure, he could overpower the guards easily. Their grip was weakening, their attention was waning. They were growing complacent. They would never see if coming. Still, once he started running there was nowhere to go, and everyone would be on high alert. Four people with guns against one unarmed man wasn’t a good mix, even for him. Odds were he’d be hit just by chance. Besides, even if he somehow got away, men in handcuffs rarely got far. It was better to stay and reap his reward. Either way, he always got what he wanted in the end.</p><p>The guards shoved Michael up the stairs and onto the plane. Curt traipsed behind him; his head hung low as he tried to ignore the dark storm clouds gathering up above. Summer was most definitely over. He peered back towards Cynthia. She gave a firm nod, a nod that he’d seen so many times in his life. It was a nod that meant: ‘Go get them. I believe in you.’</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Do not let her down again.</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>Cynthia wasn’t lying when she said the plane was fit for a celebrity. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d travelled in such style. The floor was covered in red carpet. The chairs were brown leather and positioned for conversation. If it wasn’t for the white metal walls and black seatbelts Curt could almost forget he was on a plane, not in a gentleman’s longue in Monte Carlo. The guards pushed Michael down into a backwards facing chair and adjusted his handcuffs, clipping one cuff to the armrest. They dropped the key into Curt’s hand as they walked off. He placed it in his pocket and watched them go. Michael glared at them as they left before sighing and putting on his seatbelt. Curt took his own seat, facing towards Michael, and put on his own seatbelt. He allowed himself a small, quiet gulp as the door slammed shut.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>No backing out now.</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>The first few hours passed uneventfully. The weather had taken a turn for the worst, with thunder rattling just outside the windows, and the turbulence was doing little to calm Curt’s nerves. He’d managed to find ways to entertain himself. He’d found a type of minibar and helped himself to peanuts and a martini. He sat munching away and flicking through the pages of a rather boring car magazine, trying to ignore Michael staring daggers into him.</p><p>“You know you’d probably be a lot more comfortable if you lighted up a bit. We’ve got magazines, we’ve got food. What’s there to be unhappy about it?” Said Curt without looking up.</p><p>“I’m handcuffed to the bleeding chair.” Michael snapped.</p><p>“Yes, you are. You’re a murderer, Michael, we’re not just going to let you run around loose.”</p><p>“Oh please, like you’ve never killed anyone. I bet you good money that if we put our numbers side by side, our kill counts aren’t that far apart, deliberate or otherwise.”</p><p>Curt took a deep breath and bit the inside of his lip. He closed the magazine and placed it aside.</p><p>“What I do, I do for my country. For the greater good.” He said quietly, looking down.</p><p>“Sure, everyone you killed deserved it, right?” Michael grumbled.</p><p>“Right.” Curt looked out of the window at the nearly black, cloudy sky around them, trying to avoid eye contact.</p><p>“I know it’s not clear right now, but believe it or not, Curt, I’m not the bad guy here.” Michael sighed.</p><p>“You work with the Nazis.” Curt snapped, turning his gaze back towards the captive.</p><p>“Not the Nazis, a Nazi.” Michael scowled.</p><p>“Technicalities.”</p><p>“The Baron is just a means to an end. When it comes down to it, the world is just bad people working with terrible people to get what they want.”</p><p>“I wonder what category you fall into then.” Curt smirked.</p><p>“You really think all your intel comes from upstanding citizens? You’d be surprised how low your friends in arse are willing to go when the ‘greater good’ is on the line.”</p><p>“Alright.” Curt shouted and leaned forwards, pointing an accusing finger at Michael. “We all know it’s a painfully unfortunate acronym, but we also know you’re supposed to pronounce each letter separately. Besides, even you were supposed to pronounce it as a word, it would be pronounced ass, not arse. There’s no r in it. I used to have this stupid argument all the time with-“ Curt stopped pointing and looked away again. He scowled and slumped back into his chair, lowering his voice. “Just go back to glaring. You’re a lot more tolerable when you’re quiet.”</p><p>“No objection from me.” Michael shrugged. Thunder crashed through the air, shaking the plane. Michael flinched, his shoulders tense. He took a deep, shaky breath as stability resumed.</p><p>“Are you afraid of flying?” Curt raised an eyebrow.</p><p>“I’m not afraid of anything.” Michael barked. Curt rolled his eyes and looked out of the window, watching the lightening streak through the sky.</p><p>Owen used to be terrified of flying. He tried to put on a brave face, but if they managed to find themselves alone on a particularly bumpy flight, Curt would often catch him shaking like a leaf. Sometimes, it was possible to tell where he had been sitting, from the nail marks in the armrests that he’d been clinging onto for dear life.</p><p>“Calm down.” Curt used to laugh. “Far more cars crash a day than planes.”</p><p>“Yes, but normally when you crash a car you climb out, call for a lift, and apologise for the mess you’ve made.” Owen would retort. “That doesn’t tend to happen with plane crashes.”</p><p>Curt would tease but he’d always find ways to keep Owen’s panicked mind occupied. They’d play simple games: tic-tac-toe, hangman, connect the dots. Curt always found a way to let Owen win and Owen’s smug sense of satisfaction would distract him from his fear until they safely landed.</p><p>“Don’t worry, Michael.” Curt grinned. “One hundred percent of flights reach the ground eventually.”</p><p>Michael rolled his eyes.</p><p>“Hey.” Curt continued. “I spy with my little eye something beginning with…P.”</p><p>“Really?” Michael huffed.</p><p>“Yes really. Trust me, you’ll feel better.”</p><p>“Fine. Is it…plane?”</p><p>“No. I’m not going to be that obvious.” Curt laughed.</p><p>“Prat?”</p><p>“Now that’s just hurtful.”</p><p>“Alright, alright is it um…” He scanned around, finding Curt’s snacks on the side. “Is it peanuts?”</p><p>“Yeah, it was peanuts.” Curt smiled. “Your go.”</p><p>“This is ridiculous.” Michael muttered. “I spy with my little eye something beginning with-“</p><p>A large bang out him off as fork lightening shot by the window. They both looked up sharply. Both knew the difference between the sound of thunder and the sound of danger all too well. The plane shook violently and refused to stop. Curt peered out of the window, down at the now missing wing and smoking engine.</p><p>“Well…that can’t be good.” Curt said under his breath.</p><p>“What?” Asked Michael.</p><p>“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Curt replied and gently pulled the blind down. He lowered himself far back into his seat and pulled his seatbelt as tight as it would go. Not that it would do much good. He wasn’t sure if Michael had noticed, but they were losing height.</p><p>“Buckle yourselves in tight, gentlemen. We’re about to make a forced emergency landing.” The pilot announced over the tannoy.</p><p>“Forced emergency landing? Sounds dramatic, hey Michael?</p><p>”Crashing, Curt. It’s a fancy way of saying we’re crashing.” Michael shouted.</p><p>“Alright, alright, just calm down. This is no time for hysteria.”</p><p>“This is the perfect time for bloody hysteria.” Michael paused. None of his plans ever accounted for being so high up in the air. “Uncuff me.” He ordered.</p><p>“What? No.”</p><p>“Do you really expect me to shield myself with only one hand?”</p><p>Curt considered this for a moment. He reached into his pocket and retrieved the key. He unclipped himself and stood up, but the shaking forced him back into his chair almost instantly. The key tumbled from his hand. Michael stretched out his leg to pull it towards him, but a sudden downwards lurch stole it away as it slid towards the cockpit door.</p><p>“I’m sorry, we’re falling too fast. There’s no way I can get you out and strap myself back in safely in time. This is the closest chance we’ve got to surviving.” Curt explained, rapidly rebuckling himself.</p><p>“I can’t believe I’m going to die with you.” Michael grumbled. Curt shook his head. Loud rumbling continued to increase in volume, making further conversation nearly impossible. Curt opened the blind a small amount, just enough to see into dark sky. Rain beat down on the window as a stream of debris raced off into the distance. He closed the blind again and took hold of the armrests, making his back rigid against the back of the chair. He took long, deep breaths, trying to force some sense of calm in what would likely be his last few seconds of life, regardless of the hopeful words he gave Michael.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>This is it. See you soon, Owen.</em>
  </strong>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Down Below</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>As Michael awakes in the rubble, it quickly becomes clear that his mission isn't going to be as straight forward as he hoped.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dull pains pulsed through Michael’s body, his aching bones making him painfully aware of his heavy limbs. He must have lost consciousness at some point during or after impact, because he had no memory of closing his eyes. He screwed them further shut, not wanting to face the world. He moved his head back and forth, trying to shake away his dizziness and nausea. Cool air blew over him. The air was fresh, the sun outside was bright. Bright enough to reach him even in his forced darkness. A realisation hit him as he started to regain awareness.</p><p>Not dead.</p><p>His eyes pinged open. He looked around, trying to get a sense of the situation. Part of the right side of the plane had been ripped away, leaving the sides of the remaining jagged and the field outside exposed. The storm must have blown over while he was unconscious because the sky was blue and dotted with white clouds. The front of the plane was smashed to pieces and the trial of fresh blood confirmed what he already knew. The pilot and co-pilot were dead. Which just left Curt.</p><p>Curt’s seat had narrowly avoided meeting the same fate as the cockpit. He remained strapped in, unmoving. Michael struggled to his feet and tried to approach him but found something holding him back. He looked over to his handcuffs which had been pulled tort. He tried to tug himself free. The cuffs rattled but refused to free him. He twisted himself round. His body sent another round of pain around his system in protest, but he paid it no mind. He placed his uninjured leg on the seat and started to push back, pulling the chain as tight as it would go. The chair let out a groan before Michael heard a loud rip. Michael went tumbling back as the armrest was torn free and he hit head hard on the ground.</p><p>“Fuck.” He cried out, reaching his hands to his throbbing head. He took several deep breathes, waiting for the nausea to pass. After a few seconds, he took his hands away and laid back on the floor, watching the ceiling, before eventually forcing himself to get back up. He turned back to Curt. Still no movement. Michael kicked around in the dirt and rubble until he found the shiny silver key. He reached down and unlocked the cuffs, allowing the armrest to drop the ground. He rubbed in sore wrist. It was going to take weeks it to go back to normal.</p><p>“Curt?” Michael asked sheepishly. No response. He walked over and waved his hand over Curt’s eyes. Nothing.</p><p>“Curt.” Michael repeated firmly. Curt let out a small, pained groan and rolled his head to the side. A sigh of relief escaped Michael’s lips before he had time to register it. He scowled and shook his head. He didn’t have time to be wasting braincells on such a stupid man. He stumbled out of the open hole in the side of the plane and scanned the grassy, open field. They must have been out for a couple of hours, because while any sign of the storm was completely gone, the grass still glistened with water droplets. Small tinges of pink and yellow were beginning to bleed into blue up above, indicating the first warning signs of sunset. It must have been early evening, 4 or 5 at the latest.</p><p>“Stop.” Curt grumbled. Michael ignored him and started to walk.</p><p>“I said stop.” Curt said loudly. Two clicks rapidly followed each other. The first was that of a seatbelt being unclicked, the second was the all too familiar sound of a gun being primed. Michael stopped and turned back. Curt looked even worse than usually. His hair was dishevelled, and his white shirt was half untucked. He stood panting for breath. One hand was placed on the jagged hole in the wall as he tried to keep himself upright, the other was being used to shakily keep a gun aimed towards him.</p><p>“You’re not going to shoot me.” Michael sneered.</p><p>“We’re still on a mission. You’re my charge. I have a duty to make sure you don’t escape.” Curt reminded him.</p><p>“Sure, and if you can find a way to do that without killing me, let me know.” Michael started to walk again, trying to stride faster this time, but it was difficult now that the injury from the two bullets and the pain of the crash were starting to combine.</p><p>“You know there’s nowhere for you can go. We’re in the middle of nowhere.” Curt shouted after him. Michael sighed and turned back once again. Curt hadn’t attempted to chase after him, though he had lowered his gun. He’d caught his breath, but even from a distance Michael could tell he was shaking slightly as he continued to cling to the wall.</p><p>“We’re not in the middle of nowhere. We’re in Belgium, near Brussels.” Michael explained.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“We’re- Just come here. I’ll show you.”</p><p>Curt placed his gun back into the holster and slowly approached. Michael placed a firm hand on Curt’s shoulder and spun them both around. He pointed into the distance turns the silhouette of a city.</p><p>“You see that there? That’s Brussels. If you squint you can see what’s known as the Grand Place or Grand Square, where Brussels Town Hall is situated.” Michael told him.</p><p>“Brussels. Civilisation.” Curt muttered as he tried to force his brain to produce coherent thoughts.</p><p>“It’s hard to truly find nowhere these days.” Michael muttered.</p><p>“Then I can get us out of here. Come on, Michael.” Curt started to walk as he tried to tuck his screwed-up shirt take into his trousers.</p><p>“You don’t really expect me to follow you, do you?” Asked Michael.</p><p>“I don’t see what else you’re going to do. Unless you’ve got your own plans to find your way home.”</p><p>Michael grumbled. He had allies all over the world. They were people trying to shape the world into something new, but just like him they saw others as a means to an end, and Michael could offer no end. Not now that his original plans had been derailed. He didn’t have any real friend to speak of, so staying with Curt was likely the safest and easiest way home.</p><p>“I hope you’ve got a plan.” He murmured as he followed behind Curt.</p><p>“A plan? No, I never a plan.”</p><p>“Why does that not surprise me?”</p><p>“But I have friends in high places. If I can contact them, we’ll be out of here by morning.”</p><p>The pair trudged through the muddy field, caking their shoes and the bottom of their trousers with dirt. They clambered over a small fence onto the side of an empty road and, with the city in the distance, started to follow it. Only a few cars passed them on their walk, but the drivers paid them no mind. Nobody cared about the scruffy men limping by the roadside.</p><p>“Hey Curt.” Said Michael.</p><p>“Yeah?” Curt asked.</p><p>“I spy with my little eye something beginning with C.”</p><p>“Not now, Michael.” He huffed.</p><p>“Oh come on, I didn’t get to finish my turn.”</p><p>“Fine. Is it…country?”</p><p>“Of course, it’s not country. You can’t just broadly say country in I spy.” Michael snapped.</p><p>“Okay. Is it clouds?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“I don’t know.” Curt shrugged. “Is it Curt?”</p><p>“You’re getting closer. I’ll give you a hint, it’s a describing word.” He smirked. Curt stopped and snapped his head around.</p><p>“Now that’s just immature.” Curt hissed before continuing to walk.</p><p>“It was careless, if you’re interested.” Michael told him.</p><p>“I have no idea what you’re on about.”</p><p>“You could have gotten me killed.”</p><p>“It’s not my fault the plane crashed. You expect me to control the weather?” He scowled.</p><p>“I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the cuffs. If something had fallen on me-“</p><p>“Well nothing did. Now will you just-“ Curt stopped as his eyes fixed on something a few meters away. A small phone box on the side of the road. “Oh thank God.”</p><p>Curt broke into a sprint as he headed towards the box.</p><p>“Please don’t make me run.” Michael grumbled as he lightly jogged to catch up.</p><p>Curt threw open the door and shoved the current occupant, a middle-aged woman with dark hair, out into the open.</p><p>“Sorry, excuse me, pardon me.” He said as grabbed the phone from her hand.</p><p>“Que diable?” The woman exclaimed. Curt waved his hand dismissively. The woman looked up at Michael. He gave a confused, slightly apologetic shrug. She huffed and walked off.</p><p>“She’ll call you back.” Said Curt as he hung up the phone. He looked at the pricing list on the wall, trying to decipher the French text. It struck him that he’d left his bag in the rubble of the plane. Even if it had survived the crash, it was far behind them now. “Shit, do you have change?”</p><p>“You know believe it or not they didn’t hand me my wallet when they cuffed me to the chair.” Michael scowled.</p><p>“Fine, fine.” Curt routed around his pockets, throwing aside napkins and lint. He found a few dollars and even a loose pound coin from a trip to England, but they wouldn’t do him any good in the middle of Belgium. Eventually he managed to find a small handful of francs. It wasn’t much, but they would get him through a short call. He frantically dialled the number. “Hello operator, please put me through to Cynthia Houston at the American Secret Service.”</p><p>“Pardon?” Asked the operator.</p><p>“Cynthia Houston at the American Secret Service. It’s an international number. It’s urgent.”</p><p>“Je vous passe la parole.” Said the operator. The phone clicked as she transferred the line.  Curt tapped his foot impatiently as the phone continued to ring. “Come on, Cynthia, come on.”</p><p>“Hello?” A familiar Russian voice greeted. Alarms blared in the background. Clearly Curt and Michael weren’t the only ones with troubles.</p><p>“Tatiana?” Curt asked.</p><p>“Who is this?”</p><p>“It’s Mega.”</p><p>“Oh, it’s you. Are you alright? I got a telegraph through saying you didn’t reach your check in.”</p><p>“I’m fine. We’re both fine. We’re in Belgium.”  He rapidly explained.</p><p>“Belgium? I don’t mean to judge your sense of direction, Curt, but you might be a little off track.” She commented.</p><p>“It wasn’t deliberate. Our plane came down. Where’s Cynthia?”</p><p>“She’s in the cupboard.” Tatiana answered casually.</p><p>“What? What’s she doing in there?”</p><p>“I put her in there. She’s unconscious and tied to a chair, but I think the cupboard will provide an extra layer of security when she wakes up.” She explained.</p><p>“What?” He exclaimed. “Why? I thought you were cooperating. What happened to our deal?”</p><p>“What’s going on?” Asked Michael, taping on the glass.</p><p>“Oh no I am still cooperating.” She reassured him. “But I’m used to being betrayed, so I’m taking some insurance. No better insurance than your boss.”</p><p>“You’re not going to get away with this. Someone is going to stop you.”</p><p>“No, they won’t. I pulled the fire alarm to get everyone out of the building before putting the office into level 5 lockdown. It was set up in 1950 with only three people knowing the code to reopen it. One died in 1955, one is in Moscow on some long-term mission, and one is currently in the cupboard. It’s going to take a while before anyone gets in here.”</p><p>“You know if you were literally anybody else, I’d be impressed right now.” Curt grumbled.</p><p>“I’ll take that as a compliment.”</p><p>“Il reste une minute. Insérer un changement.” The operator chimed in.</p><p>“Look, I’m running out of time. We need help. Can’t you contact an extraction team or another agent or just…anybody?”</p><p>“No.” Tatiana replied.</p><p>“Why not?” He shouted.</p><p>“It’s not malicious, I just can’t help. Cynthia will be out for several hours and I have no authority. If I even try to contact another agent they’ll know we’ve been compromised.” She explained.</p><p>“But-“</p><p>“Look, you’re good at what you do. You know I’ve been going through your files, a man with that many successful missions should have no trouble figuring something out. Now I’ll let you get off before you waste all your change. Try to keep me posted if you can. Good luck, Curt.”</p><p>“No, Tatiana, wait-“ The line went dead. Curt sighed and hung up the phone. He rubbed his hands through his hair and walked back out.</p><p>“Well?” Asked Michael.</p><p>“Yeah…we’re not getting out here so easily.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I really hope I got the French right. I used Linguee, which is supposed to be considerably better than Google Translate, but I'm still not sure.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. First Night</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>While trying to bed down for the night, Curt and Michael both decide to share elements of their past.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Two bros, chillin the farmer's field. Five feet apart 'cause they're not gay.</p><p>Also I picked the deadliest man alive's 'name' without considering the fact I know someone called Michael irl (he's very nice and not a murderer like this Michael) and now it feels really weird to write. Oh well, no going back now lol.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The pair tried to continue their march towards Brussels, but both were still far too dazed and confused to make much progress. Darkness was falling on them fast and they gave up on the idea of reaching the city by the nightfall. They pulled themselves over into another field near a farm. Trees with nothing but a few brown remaining leaves lined the edges. The pair scoured the branches until they found enough reasonably dry wood to start a small campfire. They set themselves and the wood down on the still damp ground and tried to make themselves comfortable as the last streaks of light shone across the grass.</p><p>“Do you think anyone will notice that we’ve pulled half of their branches down?” Asked Curt.</p><p>“Civilians aren’t observant, Curt. They can’t tell the difference between a man-made snap and a natural snap. They’ll presume it was the storm.” Michael huffed. He vigorously rubbed two small sticks together above the pile in an attempt to force a spark.</p><p>“Sorry you don’t get to sleep somewhere better tonight.”</p><p>“Don’t worry about it. I’ve slept in worse places.” He sighed. A tiny spark came to life and jumped to the pile, setting it a light. Michael smiled and threw the two sticks into the fire. They crackled as they hit the flame. “Still got it. Who knew all that Scouts training would come in a handy, hey?”</p><p>“You were a Scout?” Curt asked doubtfully.</p><p>“Yeah. Went nearly the whole way through. Beavers, Cubs, Scouts. The whole thing.” Michael grinned.</p><p>“Hmm, interesting.”</p><p>“Why is that so surprising to you?” Michael scowled.</p><p>“I don’t know.” Curt shrugged. “I guess I just struggle to picture you ever being a kid.”</p><p>“What you think I came out of the womb fully grown and clutching a knife?” Michael smirked.</p><p>“Well when you put it like that it sounds weird.” Curt laughed. He reached into his jacket pocket to retrieve a notepad and pen. Despite everything, they had both managed to survive. He spared a glance to Michael. He’d positioned himself as close to the fire as he safely could and had pulled his knees up close to him. It was as if he was trying to resist the urge to pull himself into a snug little ball. “Are you cold?”</p><p>“I’m fine.” He grumbled. Michael heard a small thud as something landed close to his feet. He looked down to see Curt’s jacket crumpled on the ground. He tried to catch Curt’s eye, but he’d already turned away and started writing. He rolled his eyes and put it on, zipping it up as far as it would go. “Thank you.” He mumbled.</p><p>“Don’t mention it.”</p><p>Michael tilted his head up at the night sky. The last hints of sunlight had faded, and the sky had turned a deep, dark blue. The roaring fire kept the field warm and lit and the first signs of the stars had begun to appear.</p><p>“You know I miss Scouts. It was kind of nice when knot tying, and orienteering didn’t involve a life or death situation.” Said Michael.</p><p>“Yeah I’m with you on that.” Curt laughed without looking up from his poorly lit notepad. He resisted the urge to add his concern about whose life was in danger in these ‘situations’.</p><p>“And then there was the luxury of having time to learn useless shit. Like constellations.”</p><p>“Constellations?”</p><p>“Stars, Curt.” He pointed up at three stars in the sky. “Like that. See that up there. That’s Orion’s belt. You know in Ancient Egypt they believed in stars of Orion were a God. They called him Sah, the father of Gods.”</p><p>“I don’t see it.” Curt sighed, briefly glancing up from his paper. “They’re just…dots in the sky. Pretty but useless.”</p><p>“Kind of like you then.” Michael commented, lowering his hand.</p><p>“Aw, you think I’m pretty?” Curt replied jokingly.</p><p>“Constellations take a degree of imagination, Curt. I tend to find American spies lacking in that regard.”</p><p>“Are we ever going to get through a full conversation without you insulting me?” Curt smiled.</p><p>“No. Where’s the fun in that?” Michael smiled back. “Who you writing to?”</p><p>“Nobody you know.”</p><p>“You don’t know who I know. Is it a girl?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“A guy?” Curt’s head shot up at Michael’s question. Michael shrugged casually. “I don’t judge when it comes to that sort of thing.”</p><p>“That’s great, I just- Look, if you must know I’m writing to my partner.” Curt explained.</p><p>“Your partner?” Michael raised an eyebrow. “I had you pegged as more of a work alone type.”</p><p>“I suppose I am these days. He died four years ago. But when he was alive, we used to write to each other all the time. We weren’t…officially working together, we just sort of ended up together a lot. So, when were away from each other for a long time or out on other missions, we’d write. We’d the other was alright, talk about our civilian lives. It was our way of watching over each other.”</p><p>“Seems a little pointless now.” Michael grumbled. “After all, you know he’s not alright. He’s dead.”</p><p>“Well maybe he still wonders if I am.” Curt shouted. Michael jumped. The field went silent. Curt took a breath and placed the letter a side. He started again, calmly this time. “Owen’s death was…sudden. He died on a mission and there was just no time to stop and process it. After my debriefing, I tried to write a letter to say goodbye. I thought I could sign my farewells one last time and be done with it. But by the time I’d finished writing, it still didn’t feel right. I didn’t want to stop talking to him. I <em>couldn’t</em> stop talking to him, because if I ever stopped, then it would be real. Then he’s just…gone. I know reason says Owen will never see these letters, but if I keep writing them, it’s like part of him is still with me. Like he’s still watching over me.”</p><p>“Maybe he is.” Michael said quietly. “Somewhere.”</p><p>“Maybe.” Said Curt, no longer able to raise his voice much louder than a whisper. “I’m going to sleep. Goodnight, Michael.”</p><p>“You don’t have to stop writing. I didn’t mean-“</p><p>“I said goodnight, Michael.” Curt snapped as he rolled over.</p><p>“Yeah, night.” Michael muttered as he laid down. No matter how hard he tried, his eyes refused to close. He just kept staring up at the starry night sky, the fire cracking beside him. Several times that night Michael considered taking the letter and reading it for himself, but he ultimately decided against it. It wasn’t for him. It was for a different man, a good man, who had been lost to the world a long time ago.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. The City</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>After an uncomfortable nights sleep in the field, Michael experiences a rude awakening.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>French is still hard but I've committed to having background characters speak their native language now so here we are. I really hope Linguee is still holding up. If there are any readers who speak French, please let me know if these translations are working.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Michael awoke groggily in the morning to something looming over him. He squinted and covered his eyes, trying to get a clue as to what the creature was. It wondered around, sniffing his clothes and hair, before starting to bark. After few seconds he realised that it was a small Jack Russell, maybe two or three years old at most. It licked his face, leaving a line of salvia over his cheek.</p><p>“Oye, give over.” Michael snapped. He sat up and wiped his face. The sky was pale yellow as the sun started the day.</p><p>“Hey. Hey toi. Qu’est-ce que tu fais ici?” A man barked at him. Michael looked towards the sound of the voice to see a red-faced man in a tweed jacket and flat cap marching towards him at full force with a rifle held idly in one hand.</p><p>“Shit.” Michael grabbed a large stick out of the burning embers of the campfire and jumped to his feet. He held the branch across himself, with both hands firmly around the bark. “Stay where you are.” He ordered.</p><p>“Tu me menaces, petit homme?”</p><p>The dogs once friendly barks grew angry. It jumped up and down by Michael’s leg, causing a distracting blur at the side of his vision.</p><p>“I said stay where you fucking are.” He pointed the branch out in front of him. The dog bite into his trouser leg. It growled as it started to tear the fabric. Michael tried to shake it free but quickly had his attention pulled back to more pressing matters as the farmer raised his gun.</p><p>Curt’s eyes shot open at the sound of a commotion. He raised his head, unable to get a grip of the situation fast enough. One second, he was fast asleep, the next he was staring at Michael, trying to figure out what exactly he was holding. Without having the time to properly consider it, he decided it was most likely a weapon. It was Michael, after all. Barely three seconds into being awake and he was on his feet, rushing to prevent whatever calamity his charge was about to cause.</p><p>“Michael, stop.” He shouted, he reached out and tried to snatch the branch away. His hands were around it when the bullet shattered into pieces, leaving wooden splinters on the ground. The dog whimpered and ran back to its owner, cowering behind the man’s leg.</p><p>“Attack him not me, you dolt.” Michael shouted back. His hands signalled towards the livid farmer, who was still aiming the rifle.</p><p>“What the Hell, man?” Curt yelled at the farmer.</p><p>“Sortir de ma terre.” The farmer ordered.</p><p>“Oh, that is it. You’re for it now.” Michael rolled up his sleeves and started marching towards the farmer. He barely got a few steps away before Curt’s hand clamped around his wrist and pulled him back.</p><p>“Michael, no.” He said firmly before looking up at the farmer. “Don’t worry, we’re going.” He called over. Michael turned to face Curt, his face full of rage.</p><p>“Are you seriously going to let him attack us like that?”</p><p>“We are going.” Curt firmly repeated to Michael.  Michael scowled and brushed Curt’s hand aside. Curt made no effort to keep hold of it as Michael started heading back towards the road, away from the farmer. Curt gave a small, cheery wave to the unhappy farmer, checking that was no longer aiming at them.</p><p>“Et rester à I’écart.” The farmer shouted after them. They paid him no mind as they continued towards the capital.</p><p>By mid-day they’d finally made it. The sun was high in the sky as they made their way through the bustling city streets. Michael was left to wait patiently as Curt disappeared into a tourist information shop. He sat alone on a wooden bench, watching the crowds go about with their daily lives. It had been a long time since he’d had the chance to stop and people watch.  Young couples walked hand in hand, a mother pushed a baby in a stroller, occasionally stopping to peer in a shop window. They all looked so happy, so free.</p><p>And so painfully naïve.</p><p>A few minutes later, Curt re-emerged, his arms full of papers and pamphlets. He dropped the heap onto the bench, letting him spread all over the place.</p><p>“Jesus, did you get the entire shop?” Asked Michael.</p><p>“Everything on the free information stand, yes. Though I’d don’t speak French so I have no idea how much of it will be useful.” Curt admitted.</p><p>“Eat this. You’ll be able to focus better with some food in your stomach.” Michael handed Curt a fresh croissant before tucking into his own. Curt moved the pastry around his hands, inspecting it as if it was some sort of alien artifact.</p><p>“Where did you get this?” Asked Curt. Michael pointed at a market stall across the street that was selling an assortment of baked goods. “I thought you said you didn’t have any money.”</p><p>“I don’t.” Michael replied between mouthfuls of croissant. “But the owner wasn’t paying attention so…”</p><p>“Michael.” Curt scowled.</p><p>“Oh, come off it, love. We had to eat eventually. It’s not like he’s going to miss three pastries.”</p><p>“Three?”</p><p>“Oh, right.” Michael put the pastry down on the bench and reached into left pocket of Curt’s jacket, which he’d forgotten to take off in the hurry to leave the field. He pulled out a small, silver swiss army knife. “Traded it with a homeless guy for this.”</p><p>“What the-“ Curt exclaimed. “Michael.”</p><p>“You know I’m surprised he gave it to me. It was hard communicating with the language barrier and you’d think he’d be able to get his own pastry with a little effort. I think he was drunk.” Michael shrugged.</p><p>“Put that away.” Curt whispered. Michael rolled his eyes and placed it back into the pocket it had come from. “You’re crazy if you think I’m going to let you keep that.”</p><p>“Don’t worry, I’m not going to use it against you.” Michael reassured him.</p><p>“You shouldn’t use it against anyone.”</p><p>“Fine, fine. I promise to only use the swiss army knife in acts of self-defence.”</p><p>“Really? You promise?” Asked Curt.</p><p>“Scouts honour.” Michael smiled. Curt sighed but made no more fuss. Instead he started to rummage through his papers. His findings including, in order of importance: several brochures and advertisements for tourist shops and attractions they had no time to visit (useless), a children’s activity pack (also useless but potentially entertaining), a booklet full of coupons (which could have been useful if they had any money to spend in the first place), and two maps, one of which was a children’s map of brussels, complete with oversized pictures, and one of Europe.</p><p>“Did you deliberately pick one with pictures?” Asked Michael.</p><p>“Well since neither of us speak French, yes.” Curt retorted as he opened the children’s map. “Now, we have several options. Option one, we could go to the embassy. Easy enough for me but for you…”</p><p>“Yeah. Not exactly an American citizen.”</p><p>“You’re also a wanted criminal, Michael.” Curt reminded him.</p><p>“Right, and that.” Michael nodded.</p><p>“Option two, try to smuggle ourselves back to the US and hope we don’t run into who wants one of us dead.”</p><p>“Much easier said than done. Sneaking into America is hard enough without our baggage.”</p><p>“Right.” Curt agreed. “Which brings us round to option three, we keep going.”</p><p>“Keep going? You mean with the mission?” Michael asked.</p><p>“We already have an extraction team waiting for us on the other side. We can still stop the baron and make our way back. You can still get what you want without any damage being done to the New Democratic Republic of Old Socialist Prussian Sloviskia.” He explained.</p><p>“That all sounds great, but did you forget that we’re two whole countries away? The Peace Gala is in two days. We can’t do that on foot.” Michael pointed out.</p><p>“Who said we’d be on foot? There’s plenty of unattended vehicles around.”</p><p>“I thought you didn’t like stealing.”</p><p>“It’s not stealing. It’s…commandeering. All we have to do is figure out a way to cross two borders illegally.”</p><p>“I can get us across the border into France. I have a contact there.” Said Michael.</p><p>“Do I want to know why you have a contact there?” Asked Curt.</p><p>“Probably not.” Michael shrugged.</p><p>“Getting into Switzerland might be a bit more difficult. They’re going to be on high alert with the Peace Gala coming up. They’re not going to let anything slip by unchecked. Unless you’ve got a contact there too, of course.”</p><p>“Sorry, we never managed to get in on that one.”</p><p>“Do you have any ideas?”</p><p>“None.” Michael admitted. His eyes slid passed Curt and fell on a phone box situated on the street corner. “But I think I know who will.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Meanwhile</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Meanwhile, back at the American Secret Services' HQ, Tatiana meets a brand new assiliant.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Writing action involving characters with the same pronouns is pretty difficult, so I hope this flows okay. Also, I'm wildly aware that this probably isn't how borders work, but we're going with it.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>If Tatiana had to make just one compliant about the American Secret Service offices (and she had several to choose from), it would be about their lack of organisation. Throughout her residency she’d been attempting to gather up Curt and Michael’s files, trying to figure out what exactly their deal was. She was overwhelmed by how incredibly wrong most of their intel was. Admittedly, she didn’t know much about her captured co-worker other than his name, or at least the name he’d chosen to go by for the time being, but she was pretty confident that his ‘resume’ was vastly overexaggerated. She was also sure his file didn’t belong in the D section of the cabinet, leaving him officially labelled as ‘the deadliest man alive’. Still, having too many fake names floating about could get confusing, so having a title was occasionally worthwhile. She wondered what hers would be, had she been bad enough at her job to build up a reputation.</p><p>As she turned and bent down to place her latest read back in the section marked R for Russian Affair, something caught her attention. Small, rapidly approaching footsteps heading in her direction. She leaped to her to feet and spun on her heels, catching the arm of her assailant. A syringe clattered to the ground and spun across the floor, hitting the bottom of the open office door as Tatiana looked into the stunned eyes of her attacker, a small blonde woman in a white lab coat.</p><p>“Who are you? How did you get in here?” Tatiana barked.</p><p>“I-I’m Barbara. Barbara Lavernor, chief of scientific and technological research.” The woman stuttered.</p><p>“Do you introduce yourself to everyone via your full job title?” Tatiana scowled.</p><p>“Well I don’t get much opportunity to meet new people so…”</p><p>Tatiana released Barb’s arm, throwing it to her side, before marching over to retrieve the syringe full of clear liquid.</p><p>“This building is on lockdown. Nobody should be able to get in here.”</p><p>“Oh, well about that. You probably overlooked the failsafe. Nobody else knows about it, not even Cynthia.”</p><p>“Failsafe?” Asked Tatiana as she inspected the syringe.</p><p>“Well after General Franklin died in 1955, me and my team decided it probably wasn’t the best idea to have only two people in the entire world who could end a lockdown if we got compromised. We brought the idea of a failsafe up to Cynthia, but she wasn’t having it so…”</p><p>“So, you decided to go behind her back.” Tatiana nodded respectfully.</p><p>“For her own good. My team can access a specific vent from the outside using coded puzzle. Anyone who somehow get through the lock but doesn’t know this buildings vent system like the back of their hand would get lost almost instantly, it’s like a maze up there, but if you know what you’re doing, you can move around with ease. I came out in that corridor just outside.” She explained.</p><p>“Impressive, and why did your crack team of science send you of all people? You’re not exactly a solider and I wouldn’t want to go potentially sacrificing the ‘chief of scientific and technological research’ if I was them.”</p><p>“I’m small, I can fit into tiny places without much fuss.” Barb smiled, beaming ear to ear with pride.</p><p>“That’s sweet.” Tatiana smiled back, trying to hide her thoughts. Stupid Tatiana, she didn’t even hear her coming, not until she was already nearly upon her. If she had been someone else, if she had been stronger, then she would have been overpowered. She had to get a grip. She was growing relaxed and idle. She would have never gotten way with being so careless outside. “Well, Barb, it’s been absolutely lovely talking to you. You seem like a very nice and intelligent young lady.”</p><p>“Aw, thank you.” Barb blushed.</p><p>“However, you did attack me. This liquid in here.” She continued, tapping the side of the syringe with her index finger. “This is what you used to knockout Michael, yes?”</p><p>“Oh…well yes.”</p><p>“Excellent.” Tatiana lunged forward, brandishing the syringe like a knife. Barb dove aside towards the desk, deliberately knocking the office chair into Tatiana’s path. Tatiana stumbled, forcing her to stop to regain her footing. Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, Barb grabbed a stapler from Cynthia’s desk and smashing it over Tatiana’s head, causing Tatiana to instinctively gasp and drop the syringe. The glass shattered on the cold, hard ground, leaving the liquid running through over the floor.</p><p>“Fine.” Tatiana growled as she bent to pick up a large shard of glass. “Have it your way, little scientist.”</p><p>Barb grabbed the chair, forcing it forward like a shield. She struggled to push Tatiana back as she slashed the glass back and forth, cutting own her hand in the process.</p><p>“Just stay still you little-“ Tatiana froze at the sound of the ringing phone. She sighed and rolled her eyes, slamming the glass down on the desk. “I need to take this.”</p><p>“Oh sure, by all means, take your time.” Barb nodded, still gripping onto the chair.</p><p>“Hello, this is the American Secret Service headquarters. How can I help you?” Tatiana greeted as she picked up the phone.</p><p>“Tatiana, working on the professionalism, I see.” Curt replied cheerily.</p><p>“Yes well, somebody’s got to do it. What is it now, Curt?”</p><p>“Is that Curt?” Barb called over. “Hi, Curt.”</p><p>“Barb?” Asked Curt. “What’s she doing in the office?”</p><p>“She broke in. Something to do with a vent failsafe.” Tatiana explained.</p><p>“Failsafe? I knew those scientists were up to something.” Curt muttered.</p><p>“Yes, she’s been a troublesome little minx. Very nimble.”</p><p>“Look, that doesn’t matter right now. We need your help.”</p><p>“Obviously. Go on.”</p><p>“We need a way to sneak across the border between France and Switzerland”</p><p>“And you think I’d know how to do that because…”</p><p>“Well…” Curt grumbled.</p><p>“What’s going on?” Barb whispered. She set the chair back on the floor and sat down. She had time to relax a little before the fight resumed.</p><p>“He needs a way to get through the French border to Switzerland.” Tatiana muttered.</p><p>“Oh Curt, I placed two fake passports in your bag. You shouldn’t have any trouble crossing normally.” Barb called towards the phone.</p><p>“Barb said-“</p><p>“I heard her, but I don’t have the bag anymore.” Curt pointed out.</p><p>“He says he lost the bag.” Tatiana sighed.</p><p>“What does he mean he lost the darn bag.” Barb shouted.</p><p>“I didn’t lose it, it just…got lost.” Curt replied.</p><p>“Do you know how much time-“ Tatiana cut Barb off by throwing out an open palm, indicating holt. Barb crossed her arms and threw herself back into the chair but made no more fuss.</p><p>“Look, I know you’re on a time limit here, so you pay attention.” Tatiana said firmly. “I went to Switzerland once and only once, through a tunnel dug around fifteen minutes west from the checkpoint. Last time I checked, it takes the border guards about half an hour to parole each way, so you have a very small window to get through. It’s been years since I tried it, I don’t know if the tunnel is still there or if you’ll be able to fit through.”</p><p>“Wow, okay.” Curt muttered.</p><p>“But if all goes according to plan, you should be able to get through the border in one piece.” She continued.</p><p>“Great, thanks Tatiana.” Curt smiled.</p><p>“Please don’t do anything stupid.”</p><p>“Don’t worry, Tatiana, I never do anything stupid. I’ll check-in again when I can. Try not to hurt my scientist.”</p><p>“I make no promises.” Tatiana grumbled as she hung up.</p><p>“I swear that man is going to be the death of me.” Barb snapped.</p><p>“I’m guessing this isn’t the first time he’s lost important equipment.” Tatiana commented. She eyed up the blood-stained glass on the desk. Her hand stung, but the bleeding had stopped. She sighed and turned away. It felt awkward to start fighting again will she was angry at Curt.</p><p>“Lost, forgotten, generally messed up in the field. Oh, don’t get me wrong, he’s a great guy, but my God he just…urgh he frustrates me so much.” Barb ranted. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be offloading on you like this.”</p><p>“No, no, it’s fine.” Said Tatiana, pulling up the chair on the other side of the table. “I’ve got all the time in the world. Now, tell me all about it.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Tatiana Slozhno, part time assassin, full time therapist friend. </p><p>Btw I got my university timetable at last. I start back on Friday. This is my third and final year and I expect to have a lot on my plate, so updates might slow down pretty soon. Which is a real shame because I really enjoy seeing new comments regularly, but there's not much I can do. Updates will still be coming as soon as they can though and I have a lot of chapters planned that I'm really looking forward to writing.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Car Troubles</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Attempts to make progress on the way to the French border brings up old memories.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It only took a short, five-minute walk outside of the city before Curt and Michael found a suitable vehicle. The car was a silver, two door convertible Alfa Romeo 2000, which sat unattended by the roadside. Curt looked around for signs of the owners, but it appeared the car had been abandoned for some time. He grinned and approached the vehicle. Finally, things were starting to look up.</p><p>“You see, Michael. This is going to be easy.” He smiled.</p><p>“I think it’s abandoned for a reason, Curt.” Michael commented as he inspected the driver side wheels. “This thing is a wreck.”</p><p>“Oh nonsense. It’ll be fine.”</p><p>Michael rolled his eyes and slid into the driver’s seat. At least the inside was well maintained.</p><p>“Its been a while since I hotwired a car, but if I could just get this ignition open, I should probably be able to get us going.” Michael explained.</p><p>“Yeah, that’s great.” Curt reached down through the open roof and into the glovebox. He rooted around, finding the shining keys in seconds.</p><p>“Show off.” Michael smirked. “Alright, hand ‘em over.”</p><p>“Oh no you don’t.” Curt laughed, snatching the keys out of Michael’s reach. “No way am I letting you drive. Move over.”</p><p>Michael huffed before exiting the vehicle and walking around to let himself into the passenger side. Curt nodded respectfully and climbed into the driver’s seat. The engine spluttered as struggled to life. It growled and coughed but managed to run regardless.</p><p>“That doesn’t exactly sound healthy.” Michael muttered.</p><p>“It’s fine. Just trust me.”</p><p>Curt started to drive. The car chugged along, groaning in protest every few minutes. No matter how hard Curt pressed down on the accelerator, it refused to go any faster than 30 miles per hour. Half an hour into the drive and three angry overtakes later, Michael finally spoke up.</p><p>“This is absolutely ridiculous.” He huffed.</p><p>“I can’t go any faster, Michael.” Curt scowled. “Just have a little patience.”</p><p>“We don’t have time to be patient. We’re on a very tight schedule here.” Michael reminded him.</p><p>“I know, I know, okay? But there’s nothing I can do. Please try and relax. Enjoy the drive. Look, we can put do the radio.” Curt switched on the small car radio. To both of their surprise, it still worked. The broadcast was mildly peppered with static, but with a little adjustment they could hear it well enough. The announcer spoke in clear, crisp English, as he introduced the next song. “There you go, see? A little slice of home.”</p><p>“Right. Home.” Michael muttered and looked down at his feet. Curt glanced over.</p><p>“Hey. Cheer up.” Curt smiled encouragingly, giving Michael a little nudge. “Tonight with words unspoken, you say that I'm the only one.” He started to sing along to the tune that was playing.</p><p>“But will my heart be broken when the night meets the morning sun?” Michael muttered in response.</p><p>“I'd like to know that your love is love I can be sure of. So, tell me now, and I won't ask again.”</p><p>“Will you still love me tomorrow?” Michael sung with a small smile on his face.</p><p>“Will you still love me tomorrow?” They sang together.</p><p>“Not bad.” Curt grinned.</p><p>“Eh, I can be alright when I want to be.” Michael shrugged. “I used to sing a lot in my free time.”</p><p>“Used to? Why did you stop?”</p><p>“I guess I just stopped having free time.” The radio fell silent as the car let out a small bang. It rolled forward for a few seconds more, before the engine died completely, forcing them to stop. “Ah, well that’s just perfect.”</p><p>“I think we’re just out of gas.” Said Curt.</p><p>“Oh sure, that’s why the engine’s smoking.” Michael pointed forward at the grey smoke that was starting to billow from the front of the car.</p><p>“Shit.” Curt raced out of the car. Michael calmly followed, heading behind Curt to inspect the damage. Curt popped open the hood, burning his hand on the hot metal in the process. He peered down. Somewhere along the line, a small spark had lit a tiny fire within the hood, and it was slowly but surely spreading.</p><p>“Shit.” Curt repeated frantically. He reached to the bottom of his shirt and rushed to pull it off.</p><p>“What the heck are you doing?” Michael shouted. Curt hit down on the flame. It flickered and slowed but showed little sign of stopping. After a few second, he threw it over the fire, smothering it, leaving the engine lightly smoking.</p><p>“There we go. Fire control, safety, and prevention. You’re not the only one who was a scout.” Curt smiled.</p><p>“Yeah, that’s great, genius. Only now you don’t have a shirt.” Michael pointed out as he signalled with his arm the charred remains of the clothing article that still laid within the car’s hood.</p><p>“…ah.” The realisation dawned on Curt as he wrapped his arms around himself.</p><p>Michael’s eyes travelled down to a small scar on Curt’s left side, just below his ribcage. Curt paused, taking a second to process what was going on, before the penny dropped.</p><p>“From a gunshot. It’s an old mission wound.” Curt began to explain. Michael’s eyes shot back up to meet his now that he knew he’d been caught. “Well, technically speaking it’s an old Owen wound. I don’t blame him though. We were young, barely out of training, and it was dark as Hell. I figure he presumed I was someone else. Poor guy, I never saw him so apologetic. I don’t think he ever did fully let that one go.”</p><p>“Right…” Michael muttered.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>But that’s not really the full story, is it?</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>Because there was always more when it came to stories about Owen. A long, unspoken ‘after’ once the tale had stopped being told.</p><p>Curt had kept telling Owen that he was fine, that he wasn’t badly hurt. The bullet hadn’t hit anything vital and he could probably walk it off in time. Owen wasn’t having it. It was only their third meeting and Curt could already tell Owen had a stubborn streak running through his veins. He’d dragged the bleeding man back to his clean hotel room and forced him to rest. He’d stayed by his side all night, constantly checking if he was alright, until Curt eventually fell asleep. When he woke in the morning, Owen was gone, a trait that would become common place in almost all of their meetings. He looked over to see a vase of fresh flowers on the nightstand that he was sure wasn’t there the night before, with a small, handwritten note in front of it. The note contained a number beneath a simple message.</p><p>‘Call me if you wake up 😉’</p><p>“Here.” Michael grumbled. He unzipped his jacket and removed his shirt before handing it to Curt. Curt took it and starred at the fabric. A smile spread across his face and no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t contain his laughter as Michael rezipped his jacket. “What’s so funny?”</p><p>“You could have just given me my jacket back.” He laughed.</p><p>“Just…just put it on okay?” Michael ordered, turning a deep shade of beetroot red.</p><p>“Okay, okay.” Curt smiled as he put on the shirt. “Thanks, Michael.”</p><p>“It’s nothing.” Michael scowled.</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>“I mean it.” He snapped. “Me helping you means absolutely nothing.”</p><p>“It’s fine. I get it.” Curt chuckled. “Listen, I know you’ve got this whole tough guy exterior you need to keep up, but I think once you get passed all those murderous tendencies of yours, you’re really quite a nice g-“</p><p>Before he could finish his sentence, Curt was cut off by sudden hard shove against his chest. Michael pinned him to the side of the car, pressing his forearm against Curt’s throat.</p><p>“Don’t that. Don’t you <em>ever</em> say that.” He bellowed. “We’re not friends. You hear me, Mega? You’re still my enemy, you understand?”</p><p>“This feels like an overreaction.” Curt managed to choke out.</p><p>“Now you listen to me.” Michael continued, pressing down harder. His words were quiet now, but no less forceful. “I know what you’re like, Mega. We spend a couple of days stuck together and suddenly you think you’ve got everything figured out, right?”</p><p>“Right.”</p><p>“Wrong.” He snapped. “You understand <em>nothing,</em> and you never will, have you got that?”</p><p>“Got it. Reading you loud and clear.” Curt spluttered. Michael backed up a few steps, releasing his grip. Curt fell to his knees. He reached for his neck and coughed profusely as he tried to catch his breath. Michael watched silently, failing to say anything at all.</p><p>After a few seconds, the pairs attention was stolen by a car horn as blue, four-seater Ford Falcon pulled up besides them. The car carried a young family of three: a man with a moustache and brown jacket in the driver’s seat, a woman in a white dress and straw hat by his side in the passenger seat, and a young girl around the age of seven wearing a blue and white polka dot dress sat in the back.</p><p>“Ça va, vous deux, là-bas?” The man called out.</p><p>“Um…sorry.” Curt called back as he got to his feet. “No French.”</p><p>“English?” The man asked.</p><p>“Yes. Well he is.” Curt replied, pointing at Michael. Michael scowled but continued to stay silent. The man shook his head and walked passed the pair to look under the hood of the car.</p><p>“Looks like the things completely burnt out.” The man commented. “I’m Jacques by the way.”</p><p>“Curt. Do you think you know how to get it moving again?” Curt asked.</p><p>“Oh, it’s not going to get moving. Not in our lifetime.” Jacques laughed. “Where you two heading?”</p><p>“French border.” Michael piped up.</p><p>“Ah, France. Us too. Need a ride?”</p><p>Michael looked at Curt. Curt scowled and pursed his lips.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Got to take back control somehow, Curt.</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>“Sure.” Curt agreed, still glaring at Michael. “That would be very helpful. Come on, Michael.”</p><p>Curt gently shoved Michael forward, forcing him to take the middle seat. Curt slid into the car after him, keeping close to the door as he closed it behind him. The little girl stared at the unusual pair that was now packed into her family car.</p><p>“Boo.” Michael grinned at the small child. The girl let out a shocked squeak. Michael laughed before turning to face the front, ignoring Curt’s ever present glaring as the car pulled away.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Lyrics from: Will You Love Me Tomorrow by The Shirelles.</p><p>Note: It's been over four years since I took a fire safety course, so it's probably not a good idea to take what's presented in this story as legitimate fire advice.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Charlie</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Curt and Michael finally reach the French border, giving Michael the chance to reunite with a colleague.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Michael wasn’t sure which was worse, the young girl staring at him and making no attempt to hide it, or Curt subtly glaring at him from the corner of his eye. He was supposed he should try to accept some degree of surveillance. He was technically a prisoner after all. It was just the way Curt looked at him, his eyes full of confusion and judgement. He looked at him like his little outburst had been some sort of betrayal, as if Curt even knew what true betrayal felt like.</p><p>What right did Curt have to judge him anyway? Their jobs weren’t that different, not really. They were both trying to change the world through difficult means. It was just he was doing it in a way that so few people understood. Maybe nobody ever would. Maybe he would always be the bad guy. That didn’t matter. He didn’t have the time to stress about Curt’s paper-thin morals, just so long as he won out in the end.</p><p>“Why are you so tall?” Asked the child.</p><p>“Miram.” Her mother hissed.</p><p>“Because I ate all my broccoli when I was young.” Michael grumbled. Curt smiled slightly. Michael scowled and ignored it.</p><p>“Yuck, I hate broccoli.” Miram exclaimed.</p><p>“Yes, well you have to eat to it.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Because it’s good for you.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Because of vitamins or something. I don’t know, kid, I’m not a scientist.”</p><p>“Well then how do you know that it’s good for you?”</p><p>“Because-“ Michael caught himself snapping and cut himself off. He wasn’t going to start a fight with a seven-year-old. “Lord, please give me the strength not to kill a child today.” He muttered.</p><p>“He’s kidding.” Curt laughed as Jacques and his wife exchanged nervous glances.</p><p>“Am I?” Michael mumbled.</p><p>“Michael, I swear to God if I didn’t need you alive, I’d kill you myself.” Curt whispered.</p><p>“I don’t see why that should make a difference. It didn’t with your last partner.”</p><p>Curt fell silent. He turned away, trying to hide the pain on his face. For a split second, Michael felt a twinge of regret. He swallowed it, burying it deep down within himself.</p><p>“So…are you two on holiday?” Asked Jacques, trying to break the suffocatingly strong tension.</p><p>“It’s more of a business trip really.” Curt mumbled.</p><p>“Where are you from?”</p><p>“America.” Curt replied.</p><p>“England.” Michael’s response came out almost simultaneously with Curt’s. They locked eyes.</p><p>“Split the difference, Spain.” Said Curt.</p><p>“How is that splitting the difference?” Asked Michael.</p><p>“It’s in the middle.” Curt shrugged.</p><p>“No, it isn’t.” Michael hissed. “And even if it was that’s not how locations work. When was the last time you even went to Spain, you absolute-“</p><p>“Are you two married?” Asked Miram. The pair stopped and looked at her.</p><p>“…What?” Asked Curt.</p><p>“Well last week I was fighting with my friend, Luis, and mum said ‘you two are arguing like an old married couple’, which is what you’re doing now.” Miram explained.</p><p>“We’re not married, kid.” Michael sighed.</p><p>“Yeah, I could do better.” Curt smirked.</p><p>“Hmm, and yet you don’t.” Michael peered out the window, using Curt’s shoulder as a support to pull himself up higher. “Can you drop us here, please?”</p><p>“Are you sure?” Asked Jacques. “We’re still around a ten-minute walk from the border.”</p><p>“That’s fine. We’re meeting someone.”</p><p>The car pulled to the side of the road to let them out. Michael gave Curt a shove before exiting the vehicle himself. The family waved as they sped off to continue their journey in peace, leaving Curt and Michael alone once again. Curt hardly had a chance to get his bearings before Michael was off, marching with silent determination towards the border.</p><p>“Hey.” Curt shouted as he hurried after him. “What the Hell has gotten into you lately?”</p><p>“I don’t know what you mean.”</p><p>“No, I think you do. Look I get it, we’re not friends, okay? But that doesn’t mean we can’t act civil. You were fine with me last night. Heck, you were fine with me this morning. So, why is it all of a sudden you have a problem?”</p><p>“We don’t have time for this, Curt.”</p><p>“Is this because I said you were nice? Because if so, I’m sorry. Does that make you feel better? I’m so sorry I ever had the gall to even suggest you might be nice.”</p><p>“It’s not that, okay? It’s just-“ Michael stopped and turned around. “You just…you remind me of someone, that’s all.” He said quietly.</p><p>“That’s funny. There are brief moments where I could say the same about you.” Curt replied softly. “Were you…close?”</p><p>“As close as two people can be.” Michael chuckled. “But that was a very long time ago.”</p><p>“I see. Do you mind if I ask what happened?”</p><p>“Let’s just say we had a falling out.” Michael sighed.</p><p>“I’m…sorry to hear that. But hey, maybe it doesn’t have to be that way forever. People fall out and make up all the time. Maybe there’s still a chance for you two.”</p><p>“No.” Michael shook his head. “There’s no going back on this one. Not anymore. As far as the world’s concerned, I’m dead to him.”</p><p>“Michael, I’m so sorry.”</p><p>“Don’t be. It’s a status quo I intend to maintain. Now let’s go.</p><p>They continued to walk until they reached the line for the checkpoint. The queue stretched for what seemed like miles as Curt and Michael found themselves boxed in with holiday makers, businessmen, and migrants. Curt had never really understood the appeal of France. Owen suggested moving there once, but Curt had been quick to shut the idea down. It was too artsy, too busy, and everything cost exactly two Francs more than Curt felt it should. Still, multiple missions ended up dragging them there, to a point where Curt was mildly convinced that Owen had something to do with it.</p><p>“Will you stop that?” Michael whispered.</p><p>“Stop what?” Asked Curt.</p><p>“Tapping your hands. You look nervous. Nervous is suspicious.”</p><p>Shit, he’d been so lost in thought that he hadn’t even noticed that he was fiddling with his hands.</p><p>“Sorry, staying undercover was never exactly my speciality.” Curt muttered.</p><p>“I’m wildly aware.” Said Michael, rolling his eyes.</p><p>It was nightfall by the time they finally reached the checkpoint window. The checkpoint was nothing fancy. It was just a small portable cabin with a desk and chair inside. Inside sat a disgruntled middle-aged man with the blond hair riffling through some paperwork. He didn’t even look up when the pair approached.</p><p>“Passeport, s'il vous plait.” The man grumbled.</p><p>“Charlie, it’s me.” Said Michael.</p><p>“Passeport Monsieur.”</p><p>“Oh, don’t be a dick, Charlie, I know you speak English.”</p><p>“You’re no fun.” Charlie muttered as he moved his paperwork aside and finally looked up. “What the Hell are you wearing?”</p><p>“It’s- Look that’s not your concern. We need to get passed.” Michael explained. Charlie peered over Michael’s shoulder. Curt appeared to be lost in thought again and seemed to have for the most part zoned out.</p><p>“Holy shit, is that-“</p><p>“Yes, it is.” Michael snapped.</p><p>“What the heck is he doing here?” Charlie hissed.</p><p>“He’s helping.”</p><p>“Oh please, what good could that idiot possibly offer us?”</p><p>“You know I can still hear you right?” Asked Curt.</p><p>“A word in private please.” Charlie huffed as he unlocked the door.</p><p>“Wait here, Curt.” Michael sighed.</p><p>“Where else would I go?” Curt scowled.</p><p>Michael let himself into the tiny office and locked the door behind him. From the inside he could get a better look at his poorly furnished surroundings. Out of the view of the line was a small filing cabinet with a couple of pieces of paperwork and bowl of fruit on top. Michael took an apple from the bowl and took a bite before sitting down in the chair as Charlie pulled down the metal blind to cover the window.</p><p>“You want to tell me what’s going to?” Asked Charlie as he propped himself up against the desk.</p><p>“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”</p><p>“Curt Mega? You’re gone for less than a week and suddenly you’re partnered with Curt Fricken Mega?”</p><p>“Well, I wouldn’t say partnered…” Michael grumbled. “We just have a mutually beneficial arrangement. I’ve got a plan; I just need to keep moving.”</p><p>“But you hate Curt Mega. When I met you, you were borderline obsessed with him. He was all you bloody talked about.” Charlie reminded him.</p><p>“I’m putting that aside for now. It’s called being a professional. I wouldn’t expect you to know anything about that.”</p><p>“Ahuh, sure.” Charlie smirked. “Just admit it, you got into trouble and now you’re stuck.”</p><p>“That’s not what’s happening.” Michael snapped.</p><p>“Don’t worry about it. As long as you’re loyal to Chimera, Chimera is loyal to you. Let us sort this out for you.”</p><p>“I don’t need-“</p><p>“Just leave it with me, my friend. Curt Mega will dead before the day is out.”</p><p>Charlie had barely finished his sentence before hearing the flick of knife and the sharp, cold tip of a blade against his throat. Michael was on his feet now, glaring at Charlie with the intensity of a thousand suns. Charlie gulped and raised his hands.</p><p>“O-okay, buddy, take it easy.” Charlie stammered. “J-just listen-“</p><p>“No, you listen.” Michael snapped. “How long have you been part of this organisation?”</p><p>“Nine months.”</p><p>“That’s right. Now I’ve been part of this for four years, four <em>long </em>years, and I always get Chimera what they want in the end. I know <em>exactly</em> what I’m doing, so if I say Curt Mega stays, Curt Mega fucking stays, do you understand?”</p><p>“But-“</p><p>“Do you understand?” Michael shouted.</p><p>“Yes, yes. I understand.” Charlie cried.</p><p>“Good.” Michael replied firmly as he pulled the knife away from Charlie’s throat and placed it back in his pocket. “We’ll be moving on now.”</p><p>“Of course. You can go right ahead.” Charlie nodded rapidly.</p><p>“And we’ll be taking some money too. I’m sick of wandering around like a homeless person.”</p><p>“Sure, whatever you need.” Charlie raced to the cabinet and pulled out two small envelopes: one full of French francs, the other full of Swiss francs. He handed them to Michael, who placed them in his jacket. “An-anything else?”</p><p>“I’ll be keeping this fruit bowl.” Said Michael, picking it up from the side. He unlocked the door and let himself out. “Good talking with you again, Charlie.”</p><p>“Yeah, but two.” Charlie replied shakily before relocking the door.</p><p>“Is everything okay. The poor guy looks like he just saw a ghost.” Said Curt.</p><p>“He’s fine. Banana?” Asked Michael, offering up the fruit bowl.</p><p>“Oh. No, thank you.” Curt smiled awkwardly.</p><p>“Suit yourself. Keep up, Curt, France is ours for the taking.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Cross Country</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Curt takes a moment to consider the strangeness of the man he knows as Michael.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>My Internet is being really flaky because my billing company and my internet provider are currently fighting each other. Hopefully it won't affect anything too badly, thus are the joys of being an adult. Word of advice to my younger readers out there who might be looking at moving out in the next year or two, unless bills are covered in rent, third party billing companies aren't worth the hassle. Just sort your own bills. This has been your PSA from big sister Notmarysue.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The morning air seemed much cleaner and crisper after a decent meal and a night’s sleep in a real bed. Curt knew he should be questioning where Michael had received so much money from, but in the moment, he found himself too tired to care and by morning it didn’t seem to matter anymore. Questions rarely yielded helpful answers. Besides, if Michael really wanted to pay for a hotel, then what gave him the right to stop him? It was all the better for him, after all. Anything beat spending another night hungry in an angry farmer’s field.</p><p>Curt watched himself in the mirror has he put on his torn shirt. Seeing himself always felt strange. He’d aged so much in the last four years. His clothing didn’t help with his appearance. More accurately, Michael’s shirt. It was caked in dirt from the crash and the field and slightly ripped to one side. Luckily, neither of them had been seriously injured, so there was no blood to scrub out. Not that the shirt could be salvaged anyway. It was a miracle Jacques had ever let them into the car around his family. He’d suggested to Michael that they go out and buy something new. They were heading for a prestige event and they couldn’t show up looking like they just walked in from the streets. Michael insisted they handle it only after they reached Geneva and even though he was supposed be in charge, Curt felt compelled to listen. He got to eat, sleep, and shower. That was all the rest they had time for.</p><p>“Will you hurry up?” Michael snapped from outside the ensuite door. “I’m sure you look fine.”</p><p>“I do not.” Curt muttered.</p><p>“Sweet, Curt, always worrying about the superficial. I don’t worry. If we run into anyone important, I’m sure you’ll knock them dead with your stunning personality.” Michael laughed.</p><p>“Or you’ll just knock them dead.” Curt smirked.</p><p>“Exactly. I’ll take that as permission.”</p><p>Curt shook his head and smiled. What a confusing man Michael was. Everything he read in his file meant that from a logical standpoint, Curt should have hated him with a burning passion. He was a brutal murderer, the deadliest man alive. Plus, he was trying to undermine the government he’d spent almost his whole life defending. To care for Michael even slightly felt like a betrayal of everything he believed in. Everything Owen believed in. Yet there he was. Michael could insist on a denying it all he liked, but they were both defending each other in their own ways. They shared their humour; they shared their commitment to their cause and their beliefs (even those beliefs were wildly different). There was a sense of safety that shouldn’t have existed between two men who wanted each other dead less than a week prior. And then there was that smile, the one that was more than just the mouth, but a maniac twinkle in the eyes as well. Why did he suddenly find himself craving that smile? Why did he care?</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Why are you so familiar, Michael?</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>He scowled. What did it matter? They weren’t friends. They were barely even acquittances, if Michael was to be believed, and he hasn’t going to argue with him. Besides, even if they weren’t on opposite sides of a canyon sized rift, there were rules and regulations to be obeyed. A certain amount of detachment was expected, and he’d already experienced the consequences of not meeting those expectations once. He wasn’t going to let himself feel that pain again, not twice in one lifetime. He shook his head and unlocked the door. As long as they kept moving, it would all be over in a few days. He’d never have to think about Michael again.</p><p>“I’ll try to steal a better car for us this time.” Curt said through a forced smiled.</p><p>“A car? Oh no, we’re not doing that again. Far too slow.”</p><p>“You know you’re not in charge here right, Michael?” Curt scowled.</p><p>“Yes, I’ve been told.” Michael huffed. “But I am a man who’s good at plans. You want to get this done, don’t you?”</p><p>“Of course.” Curt nodded.</p><p>“Good. I found us a train route.”</p><p>“A train route? When did you get the time to that?”</p><p>“Last night. I faked sleeping until you fell asleep, then went off to form a plan. You know you’re a terrible handler?”</p><p>“I’m not a terrible handler.” Curt snorted. “You’re just a good escapee. Have you ever considered training as a spy? The American Secret Service and MI6 are pretty much always hiring, though I’ll leave it up to your imagination why that is.”</p><p>“Sounds like work. I’ve already got the ideal job. Current situation notwithstanding, of course.”</p><p>“Well naturally.”</p><p>“It’ll get us close enough to the border that we can find Tatiana’s tunnel while it’s still light and we’ll reach Geneva with time to spare, so we have time to get out of these rags.” Michael explained.</p><p>“Hey, that’s a perfectly good jacket you’re insulting.”</p><p>“I know. I was talking about you.”</p><p>Michael practically dragged Curt through the streets on their rush to the train station. Passers-by stared at them as they raced through alleys and short cuts. There was plenty of time and plenty of trains, but there was no slowing Michael down. Why the sudden hurry? Did Michael care about completing the mission after all? Maybe he was just wanted to get out of Curt’s hair and collect his reward. No man likes to be trapped, even if the cage looks like open air.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>So why doesn’t he just run?</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>Why stay when the city was sprawling? Why come back to the hotel if he knew his escape wouldn’t be noticed until morning? In Belgium, he was trapped without friends or relations. In France, he had contacts. He had Charlie. If he wanted an out, he could have been given one. Curt wouldn’t have been able to stop him. He was one man with one gun, nowhere near the agent he used to be. If Michael wanted to leave, he could leave. If Michael wanted Curt dead, Curt would be dead. This was a sour fact that both men were on some level aware of. And so, the question remained, why not run?</p><p>Maybe Curt was looking for meaning when there was none. After all, it wasn’t like Michael had absolutely no motivation to complete the mission as instructed. He had his reward. That priced piece of land he was so keen on. Michael didn’t come across as much as a farmer, though Curt wasn’t sure what ‘evil’ plans a man could bring to fruition with a few choice acres, but it didn’t really matter anyway. He was unlikely to get much use out of it. The American Secret Service ran on one thing above all else. Above secrets and science and spies, they ran on loopholes. Michael never asked for immunity the way Tatiana did. With his list of crimes stretching out for miles, he’d surely be sent down for a very long time. Though that being said, with the number of enemies he had, it was unlikely he’d be allowed to survive even a fraction of his sentence.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>I wonder if he knows.</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>He must have known. He was a smart man; he could work out how the system works. But perhaps that was the point. They’d both been doing their job for so long. Though he hid it so much better, perhaps Michael was just as tired as him. Spies and criminals had just a few things in common and one was that they were always running. There was always a situation to be escaped, a stalker in the shadows, a timer running out. It was a way of being that simply couldn’t last. It wasn’t designed to. No man can run forever and either by the enemy or the reaper, they all knew they’d be caught in the end. Maybe Michael thought it was better to have last run towards something, even if the fruits of his labour couldn’t last, than to eventually go out broken and defeated with no recourse.</p><p>“Jesus, careful.” Curt heard Michael’s voice and felt a firm hand on his arm, pulling him up. Curt looked at him, confused. It occurred to him that he’d been completely unaware of his surroundings for several minutes.</p><p>“What the-? Where-?” He looked around. It appeared that Michael had pulled him off a train platform and through the open door of a stopped train. Curt didn’t remember heading to the platform nor did he remember arriving at the station. The last thing he’d been conscious off was walking through the streets, worrying about Michael. Everything else was blank. Idiot, had he been open and vulnerable that whole time? What a relief that the deadliest man alive was on his side for the foreseeable future.</p><p>“You tripped. You almost fell. You could have hurt yourself.” Michael snapped. “Where do you go when you do that anyway?”</p><p>“Do what?”</p><p>“Zone out. You just go all…glassy eyed and shut down. And nothing can reach you. I could try and hold a full conversation with you and you wouldn’t even realise. I can get you to follow, but that’s about it.”</p><p>“Sorry.” Curt mumbled.</p><p>“Don’t be sorry. Just don’t do it. It…scares me, seeing you like that.”</p><p>“What happened to not being scared of anything?” Curt smiled weakly.</p><p>“Just go sit down.” Michael sighed. “At least then I can be sure you won’t hurt yourself.”</p><p>They headed to a small, comfy compartment and took a seat opposite each other. Curt watched the scenery pass out the window as they left the station, trying with every fibre of his being not to zone out again. Passengers came and went, all keeping their distance and clutching their purses. Curt didn’t blame them. They looked like the kind of people who would rob someone. Heck, Michael probably would if he wasn’t being watched. But then again, he wasn’t really being watched to begin with. Eventually, everyone filed off or learned to avoid the compartment, allowing Curt and Michael a moment of peace as they sped across the French countryside.</p><p>“Hey Curt, about what I said earlier, about us not being friends.” Said Michael.</p><p>“Ah yes, I think that point has been made extremely clear, thank you.” Curt grumbled.</p><p>“I might have…exaggerated slightly.”</p><p>“Oh yeah?”</p><p>“We…can’t be friends. Too much has happened. The things we do, the people we’re associated with. We’d either end up getting each other killed or killing each other ourselves.” He explained.</p><p>“Yeah, I know.” Curt nodded.</p><p>“But, in another life, I think we could be.”</p><p>“Maybe.” Curt smiled.</p><p>“And hey, if I ever see in a dark ally after this is over, I probably won’t kill you.”</p><p>“Um…thanks, Michael. That means a lot coming from you.”</p><p>Curt turned back to the window. Another life. Wouldn’t that be nice? What he wouldn’t give to living another life. The French scenery rolled on and on. All beautiful, all meaningless. The night of the gala was drawing near. By 11pm the next night, it would all be at an end. Whatever happened next, they would both be returned to the life they had.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Throughline</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Curt and Michael reach Switzerland, but entering is far from straight forward.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>By mid-afternoon, Curt and Michael were off the train and strolling away from the glares of a particularly judgemental ticket man, who had insisted on checking their passes multiple times. It was about a twenty-minute walk to the border, with the hard ground pounding through their feet. Curt had never realised how thin the soles of his shoes had worn until he was forced to trek for miles in them. When he got back, he would be soaking his feet in warm water when he got back.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>If you get back.</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>“So, what are we looking for here?” Asked Michael.</p><p>“Some sort of tunnel.”  Curt replied as they scanned the border, trying to look as unsuspicious as two people scanning the border can look.</p><p>“Big, small, obvious? Give me some clues here.”</p><p>“I know about as much as you do.” He shrugged. “Probably not that big. Tatiana probably dug it in a hurry.”</p><p>“Have you met Tatiana? That woman could dig the entire Clifton Down railway tunnel down here and nobody would live to tell the tale.”</p><p>“Well either way, it’ll probably be subtle. We’re looking for a tiny hint: disturbed dirt, out of place stones, unexplained dips in the ground. That sort of thing.” Curt explained.</p><p>“How about animals?” Michael pointed to a spot a few meters away. A badger sniffed around the edges, unconcerned by the presence of the two men, before suddenly running forward and disappearing into something against a mound of dirt. Curt glanced at Michael before cautiously approaching the mound. It could easily just be a badger tunnel and the last thing they needed was to be trapped in a hole with several scared, clawed animals. He knelt down. The opening was behind several shrubs and reeds of long grass, which he brushed aside with his hand. The tunnel was much bigger than one any badger could dig. It was just big enough to fit a man through, if he crawled, though not comfortably. He stood up and strained his sight into the distance, where he spotted the badger run free on the Swiss side of the border.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Bingo.</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>“I’ve got it.” Curt whispered, beckoning Michael over.</p><p>“Curt, wait.” Michael whispered urgently.</p><p>“Come on.”</p><p>“Curt, st-“ </p><p>Curt was gone before Michael could even finish the word.</p><p>“Halt.” A guard yelled. Michael rolled his eyes and broke into a sprint, following Curt into the tunnel. He couldn’t believe that Curt’s arrogance had put them both in danger yet again. He didn’t even bother to check for people nearby before forcing his way forward. No, he could believe it. That was the problem. He had hoped that after all these years he would have learnt.</p><p>“Move like your life depends on it, because your life <em>does </em>depend on it.” Michael snapped, pushing Curt forward.</p><p>“Relax. It’s not like they’re going to follow us down here.”</p><p>“Yeah, that’s great, but what happens when we reach the other side?”</p><p>Curt bit his lip. The long, sharp blow of a whistle sounded in the distance, followed by the blaring of alarms and the barking of dogs. Border control was going to have a field day when they got their hands on them.</p><p>“Well…I guess there’s no rush then.” Curt grumbled.</p><p>They continued through the tunnel on elbows and knees, the roof hitting against their heads. The rough ground scrapped their skin until they felt the reassuring blow of fresh air against their faces. They pulled themselves into the open, blinking at the bright light, and we immediately met with cold metal of two guns pointing at their faces. They got to their feet and slowly placed their hands in the air. This wasn’t the first time they’d been a situation like this. They hoped it wouldn’t be the last.</p><p>“State your name and business.” One of the guards ordered.</p><p>“Well, that’s kind of a long story.” Said Curt. For a second, he genuinely considered telling them the whole story. If he did, perhaps they would understand the urgency and let them go. But even if it didn’t go against confidentiality, how could he tell the story of Doctor Baron Von Nazi, the New Democratic Republic of Old Socialist Prussian Sloviskia, and the idiot prince Toygle Feurgin without sounding like an utter lunatic.</p><p>“I said state your name and business.”</p><p>“Yeah, I heard you, it’s just-“</p><p>“Curt, do something.” Michael whispered through gritted teeth.</p><p>Curt’s eyes darted around in search of an out. When he realised there wasn’t one, he made a sharp move to his holster. He didn’t aim. He was at a close enough distance where he was confident he would hit and it didn’t matter where. Before either of the guards could react, two bullets had been fired. One guard was hit in the stomach, the other in the shoulder. It wasn’t ideal, no situation where he had to fire on people was ideal, but it was required. He had to remind himself of that. Michael opened his mouth to say something, but had no time. Curt grabbed his hand and took off running, pulling him behind him. Shots fired at their heels. Realising he needed to get them off his case, Curt feigned being hit and fell into a ditch. Michael, still clinging to Curt’s hand for dear life, fell with him. They tumbled down, the world spinning at a sickening speed, until they eventually hit the bottom, with Michael landing awkwardly on top of the hapless spy.</p><p>“Curt-“ Michael was once again cut off, this time by Curt’s hand clamped over his mouth.</p><p>“Just be quiet a second.” He whispered. They went silent. Curt listened for the sound of footsteps. After a few seconds, he realised nobody was coming. The injured guards must have presumed their assault of gunfire would slow them down and that even if they got out of the ditch, they would be easy for someone else to catch later in the day. Once he was sure, he cautiously took his hand away from Michael’s mouth. “Alright, I think we’re going to be okay.”</p><p>“You realise people are going to be looking for us now?” Michael scowled.</p><p>“I know, that’s my bad. I should have waited.” Curt admitted. Michael sighed. At least he was learning. “If we keep a low profile, we can slip through the radar long enough to make it to the peace gala. Once we complete the mission and get back to America, we can have Cynthia sort everything else. She’s used to these problems.”</p><p>“I’m glad to hear it.” Michael mumbled.</p><p>“Hey Michael.”</p><p>“Hmm?”</p><p>“You can get off of me now.”</p><p>“Oh.” Michael blushed as he got to his feet. Curt did the same and brushed himself down. Why couldn’t he just have a nice, clean mission? He looked over the top to double check that they weren’t being pursued. Just as expected, the two guards had abandoned their post, presumably seeking medical attention. Curt climbed out before turning to help Michael. A few meters away, he spotted the badger, cowering from the noise.</p><p>“Sorry, little buddy.” He said softly.</p><p>“So now what?” Asked Michael.</p><p>“Just walk forward. Try not to act suspicious.”</p><p>“Sure, nothing suspicious about us.”</p><p>Curt looked out into the distance. Not long time to go. They’d finally made it to the correct country, several days late, but with plenty of time to spare. Just 31 hours left to go.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Geneva</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The night of the gala arrives, the mission is on.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>For those who follow me on Tumblr, yes this did end up getting split into two chapters, though it wasn't split where I originally thought it would be. As a result, the next chapter could end up being pretty short, but where I ended it just felt natural. Keeping it going passed where it stops didn't feel right to me.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The fates must have been smiling on Curt and Michael for the first time in years because they weren’t stopped on their way to Geneva. After talking their way onto a bus in extremely broken German and Italian and reassuring the driver that they were no threat, at least not to anyone present, they arrived in the city safely. Well, perhaps not safely, but they were in one piece and that was the best they could hope for. They waited out the hours keeping a low profile and searching for fresh clothes. After so long in the same dirty fabric, Curt wouldn’t mind seeing the whole outfit go up in smoke.</p><p>“I think that sales assistant is judging us.” Curt whispered as they walked through the rows of jackets.</p><p>“If you saw two men caked in mud and looking like they walked through a fire in a high-end store, would you trust them?” Asked Michael.</p><p>“Point taken.”</p><p>Adding to the list of surprises, it turned out Michael scrubbed up pretty well. In fact, he actually had quite a good fashion sense and seemed to get a kick from picking something out for them both. In the end, they headed to the Peace Gala in clean pressed tuxes with black jackets, black bowties, and shining polished black shoes.</p><p>“You know I normally go for white myself.” Curt commented as they sat on a park bench. The birds pecked at their feet as time ticked by. “Not that I’m complaining. Any new clothes are good clothes. I’m just relieved to have shoes with proper soles.”</p><p>“You attract dirt to quickly to wear white.” Michael smirked.</p><p>“Ah yes, that must be why you’ve stuck around.” Curt smiled.</p><p>“Now that’s just cruel.” Michael laughed.</p><p>“How did you know size anyway?”</p><p>“I know a lot of things, love.”</p><p>“And you’re sure you don’t want to be a spy?” Asked Curt.</p><p>“I’m positive.” He sighed as he straightened Curt’s bowtie. “Now let’s go get that bomb.”</p><p>The journey had felt like it gone on forever, but now they’d actually made it, Curt wished time would slow down. The hours went in the blink of an eye and soon enough the evening of the gala was upon them. It was an icy night. The frosts had arrived and chilled the air of the starless night. They stood in line, blending in with royals and politicians. For an international event, there was a lack of security. The only protection the venue had was an armed man at the door checking identification and invitations.</p><p>“World Peace Gala and all they get is a well-dressed bouncer. This new nation is royally fucked.” Michael whispered. Curt scowled. Everyone was thinking the same thing but saying it out loud risked drawing attention to them. The ultimate fate of the New Democratic Republic of Old Socialist Prussian Sloviskia didn’t matter, as long as he got the bomb and kept the Prince out of danger. After that, he could move on with his life. The nausea that haunted him before he’d boarded the plane was returning. His throat was as dry as the Sahara Desert. The journey had been far from easy, but the heat had been off. He had time to consider his approach and deal with his mistakes. Here it was do or die. One shot only.</p><p>“Hey.” Michael placed a firm hand his shoulder. “What I did say about acting suspicious.”</p><p>“Sorry.” Curt grumbled.</p><p>“And for the love of all that’s holy stop apologising.”</p><p>“S-“ He cut himself off before he could make the mistake.</p><p>“Look, you got us this far, didn’t you?” Michael asked softly.</p><p>“I suppose so.” He mumbled, trying to ignore the fact that some of the most effective ideas on the trip had been Michael’s idea.</p><p>“Besides, this is like…your thing, isn’t it?”</p><p>“What? Oh, yeah. Totally. I do this kind of thing all the time.” Curt nodded.</p><p>But it wasn’t his thing. It hadn’t been his thing for four years. The closest he’d been to do a mission was the failed bomb retrieval that had landed them in their current situation and all he’d got out of that was Michael, who already seemed to be better at his job than him. Had it ever been his thing? All the missions he’d been on, how many of them had been filled with accidents and a near misses? All the mistakes he’d made, all the destruction he’d caused. Sure, some of it had been worth it, but far from all of it. And now there was nobody to get out of his messes. It was all up to him. Him and a prolific murderer.</p><p>“Look, just…be yourself. Well, maybe not entirely yourself. Mostly yourself. Be yourself but quieter. Also, more careful. Be yourself but quieter and more careful. Oh and maybe-“</p><p>“Yeah, I think I get the picture.” Curt huffed as they headed forward.</p><p>“Invitation and identification please, Sirs.” The disinterested doorman grumbled.</p><p>“We don’t have those. We probably did, but they got lost in a plane crash. You know, I probably should have asked if we actually <em>did</em> have those to begin with.” Curt explained nonchalantly. Michael rolled his eyes. He supposed he did tell him to be himself.</p><p>“I’m…sorry?” The doorman asked.</p><p>“Sorry, got side-tracked. It’s been a confusing couple of days.” Curt shook his head. “We’re Cynthia Houston, on behalf of America. She’ll be able to verify our identity.”</p><p>“There’s no Cynthia Houston here.” The doorman scowled.</p><p>“Ah.” Shit, of course there wasn’t. She was still in the cupboard back in at the American Secret Service HQ. God dammit, Tatiana. “Alright listen, I don’t want to cause alarm, but everyone here is in danger.”</p><p>“Are you threatening me?”</p><p>“What? No. Look, listen to me-”</p><p>“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”</p><p>“No. I’m telling you there’s a b-“</p><p>“I said move it along.” The doorman said, shoving Curt back.</p><p>“Don’t touch him you glorified bouncer.” Michael growled, pulling the knife. “Hey Curt, does this fall under our self-defence agreement?”</p><p>“Umm.” Curt could barely process fast enough to answer as he tried to mentally debate whether to stop Michael or team up with him in this very public display of aggression.</p><p>“Don’t make another move.” The doorman ordered.</p><p>“He’s only one man, love. He can only be in one place at once.” Michael pointed out, signalling his head towards the door.</p><p>“There’s no point. You’re the only one who can open the box.” Curt whispered. “Or did you forget why I dragged you out here to begin with?”</p><p>“Upstairs, second door to the lift. I’m right behind you.”</p><p>“But-“</p><p>“Curt.” He scowled. Curt glanced at the open door, then back at Michael. Either the door guard had terrible hearing or was completely inept, because he was paying no attention to their conversation. In fact, he was so busy trying to talk Michael down, that he wasn’t watching Curt at all. He snuck passed and into the doorway. Once he was out of guard’s eyesight, he broke into a sprint and rushed up the ornate staircase with red carpet and golden banisters.</p><p>The brown, wooden door was locked, but it didn’t take much of shove to get it open. The room on the other side was a clean hotel room. It was well maintained and clearly hadn’t been lived in for quite some time, though the draws were uneven, with the top one slightly ajar.</p><p>“How’s it going?” Curt jumped out of his skin as Michael appeared behind him. Curt glanced back at the man as he placed his knife back in his pocket.</p><p>“Pretty well. Were you followed?” Asked Curt, noticing the splatters of blood on Michael’s white shirt.</p><p>“No. I took that guard into a dark corner and…had a conversation. He won’t be bothering us again.”</p><p>“Did you kill him?”</p><p>“Maybe. He was still breathing when I left him.” Michael shrugged, attracting Curt’s glares. “What? It was for the mission.”</p><p>“Well, can’t fault that logic.” Curt sighed.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Time to get this over with.</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>He opened the top draw and retrieved a cold, steel box. Attached to the handle was a thick, smooth black circle in the place of padlock.</p><p>“Here you go, buddy.” Curt smiled as he threw Michael the box.</p><p>“Jesus.” Michael’s heart skipped a beat as the box nearly crashed to the ground. He fumbled to snatch it out of the air and straighten himself up to stabilise it. “Thanks, love.”</p><p>He placed the box down on the bed. The pair stood over it as Michael bent down to place his finger on the circle. After a couple of seconds, the circle lit up blue before the lid popped open.</p><p>“Good guys one, bad guys nil.” Curt commented.</p><p>“Well, we’re still technically on opposite sides of…whatever this is. So, I think it counts as one all.” Michael pointed out.</p><p>“Sure, sure.” Curt waved dismissively. He lifted the lid to open the box. Finally, he’d done it. It had taken more time and more help than he’d ever thought, but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he’d done it. Agent Curt Mega was back. He looked down into the box, ready to retrieve the bomb and head out to find his team.</p><p>Empty.</p><p>The damn thing was empty.</p><p>“Shit.” Michael muttered.</p><p>“Where is it? I thought you said he was too stupid to change plans.” Curt shouted.</p><p>“He <em>is </em>too stupid to change plans. He’s also too stupid to follow the first plan. Why do you think I was involved to begin with?”</p><p>“I tried not to question it.”</p><p>“He thinks he has big ideas, but he’s like a bloody child. He’s impulsive, he rushes into things, he-“ Michael paused before grabbing Curt by his shoulders and spinning him around. His eyes were so full of fire that Curt completely froze. Such familiar eyes, so sharp and intense. “Curt, listen to me, we can still fix this. We just need-“</p><p>Curt never got to find out what they needed. The explosion cut him off before he had a chance to finish. The ceiling rattled, sending dust to the floor, but Curt couldn’t hear it. On some level, he knew it was there, just like he knew there was screaming. He could see Michael’s lips moving, but the movements simply wouldn’t register. He was so cold, so numb, and only one thought was going through his mind.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Too late.</em>
  </strong>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Mission's End</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Curt tries desperately to salvage the mission.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>As I expected, it's a shorter chapter today. I try to keep to lengths that feel natural while writing and not push it. I hope you enjoy it regardless. Look forward to reading any comments you have. They always make my day.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Curt kept watching Michael’s lips, trying to make some sort of sense out of the mixture of noises surrounded him. Either Michael was talking incredibly fast or his brain had stopped working because his usually reasonable lipreading skills had completely failed him. It was like his head was full of smoke. He could barely finish a single thought. Being so caught up on his lips, he didn’t register Michael’s hand moving swiftly towards him. A sharp sting burnt his cheek and the world came back into focus. Everything was clear again and he remembered what was going on.</p><p>“Ow, what was that for?” Curt exclaimed as he rubbed his cheek.</p><p>“Sorry, I needed to get your attention and yelling at you wasn’t working.” Michael explained.</p><p>“So, you decided to slap me?”</p><p>“Look I said I was sorry. Now what do we do?”</p><p>It was a very good question. What were they supposed to do? What could do they do? There was no briefing for this, no plan. He shook his head. He used to do this sort of thing all the time and he’d always managed somehow. Sure, it was just him taking control now, but he’d come for a reason. There were people in danger. He had to do something.</p><p>“The prince. We might not have missed him yet.” Curt realised. He unholstered his gun and raced for the stairs. He glanced back for a brief second to check that Michael was following before continuing. He was. Of course, he was. They were stuck together now, and Curt dared not question why. As long as someone had his back, he didn’t care who.</p><p>The main hall was chaos. Why the venue didn’t have more security Curt would never know, though he suspected Michael and his half wit employer had something to do with it. Most people had taken what he considered a logical approach and headed for the exit, though not with the order and dignity he expected from such high-class individuals. This was the way of diplomats. Bombs and violence were all fun and games until it affected them directly. He pushed his way through the crowd, frantically searching for any sign of the prince or the baron. Instead he found a shaking radio host, Vanger Borschtit, who had opted not to take the logical approach, and had ended up cowering in a corner next to the stage.</p><p>“You.” Said Curt, as he pulled Vanger to his feet by his collar.</p><p>“Oh God, don’t shoot me.” Vanger cried.</p><p>“What?” Curt remembered the gun and quickly placed it back in the holster. “Oh no, we’re not the attackers here. We’re-“</p><p>“We don’t have time to explain the whole story, Curt.” Michael scowled.</p><p>“Right, where’s the prince?”</p><p>“I-I don’t know, I didn’t see.” Vanger stuttered.</p><p>“Fine. Get out of here.” He grumbled, shoving Vanger towards the exit. He turned to Michael. “What about you? This was partially your plan. Heck, it sounds like it was mostly your plan. You must know what the next move is.”</p><p>“Hang on, let me think.” Michael replied. He racked his brain, trying to recover any shred of information. He’d been so focused on Curt over the last few days that the details were fuzzy, but it was in there. Of that he was sure. “There’s a car. A black armoured car out back. That’s how we planned on transporting the prince.”</p><p>“Show me. Right now.” Curt ordered. Michael nodded and lead them through the abandoned kitchen and out a back door into an alley. They raced to the street, hearing the hard slam of a car door.</p><p>“Stop.” Curt yelled after them. He broke into a sprint, Michael jogging behind him. The tires screeched and smoked before turned sharply around the corner and speeding off into the distance.</p><p>“Could have shot the tires.” Michael commented.</p><p>“Do you want to do my fucking job?” Curt snapped.</p><p>“Not particularly.” Michael shrugged. He paused for a couple of seconds. “Do you know where your team is?”</p><p>“No.” Curt huffed, realising how bloody useless his briefing had actually been. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not going back. Not until I find a way to fix this.”</p><p>“Curt, you can’t. The things that have been set in motion here that you couldn’t possibly-“</p><p>“I said I’m not going to back.” Curt repeated firmly.</p><p>“Alright, I’ll help you come up with something. I just need some time.”</p><p>“Time? We don’t have time. What could you possibly need time for?”</p><p>“We had several possible locations to hold Prince Toygle Feurgin. I can’t know for sure where he is, but I know people who will. Other people I got to…keep an eye on the plan. I just need time to talk to them. I won’t be long.” Michael explained.</p><p>“Fine. I’ll go wherever we need to.”</p><p>“No. You’re not coming. I can’t guarantee your safety.”</p><p>“Oh, and you could before?” Curt laughed.</p><p>“It’s too complicated to explain right now. This is much bigger than you think. There’s a warehouse near here. It’s got a red x on the door. It looks completely normal to the rest of the world but to a trained eye like yours it should be easy to spot. I’ll meet you there. If I’m not back in three days’ time, go home.”</p><p>“You really think I’m going to let you just wander off on your own?”</p><p>“Yes, Curt.” Michael snapped. Curt stopped. It might have been his imagination, but for a brief second Michael’s voice sounded wrong. It was too polished, too refined, with the smooth pronunciation of received English. It was like hearing the voice of a ghost, gone with the moment he registered it.</p><p>“Fine, but you better come back.” Curt scowled, before running off into the dark city streets.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>
    
  </strong>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. The Wait</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The days pass as Michael misses the deadline, leaving Curt alone with his thoughts.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This one is somewhat of a mini-chapter and the next chapter will likely be the same. These shorter chapters are a lot easier to get out quickly and quite enjoyable to write. (Yes I kind of enjoyed bullying Curt in this chapter, sue me). Length may pick up again after that, but I just write how much feels natural at the time. Hope you enjoy. I look forward to seeing your comments.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>For three days Curt waited in that damp warehouse.</p><p>Then another.</p><p>Then another.</p><p>The days and nights blurred into one endless block. He watched the sun rise and set over and over, the daylight hours growing shorter as time ticked on.</p><p>Six days.</p><p>Seven days.</p><p>Eight days.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Where the Hell is he?</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>He shook his head. What a stupid question that was. There were only two possibilities: either Michael was dead, or he’d left, abandoning Curt in a foreign country during an international scandal. At least this one couldn’t be traced back to him. There had been too much chaos for anyone to remember two nameless men and an injured guard.</p><p>Michael couldn’t be dead, there was simply no chance of that. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to get himself into the life-threatening situations Curt was used to. If the reaper ever attempted to come for him, Curt was confident Michael would scare them off with a glare and the flick of a knife. He was a man most aquatinted with death and death surely knew better.</p><p>Nine days.</p><p>So, that just left one possibility. Michael was gone. He’d always known where the prince would end up. He probably always known that they wouldn’t be in time to stop the bomb. If he had been resistant back in America, he would never have escaped custody. Not without a lot of fuss and damage. God, how could he have been so stupid? How could he have not seen it? Michael had played the reluctant ally. He’d been helpful on the journey, rejected possibilities of escape, built trust, so when he finally caught up with baron and re-entered the plan, Curt hadn’t even thought to chase him. Michael hadn’t even run. He’d simply ordered Curt walk away and like a fool he obeyed. He always obeyed.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>What a fucking idiot.</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>Why was he even still there? He’d been shivering over a tiny garbage can fire for over a week, struggling to find food or water, when he should have left after three days like he was supposed to. Heck, even waiting that long was ridiculous. Of course, he wasn’t coming back.</p><p>Ten days.</p><p>His team would have probably left already. He would be considered yet another lost asset of the American system. Still, he’d managed to make it over two borders already, a couple more couldn’t hurt him. Well, it could. It could hurt him quite badly, but he deserved that much for his stupidity, for allowing himself to be taken off guard.</p><p>Eleven days.</p><p>That bloody stupidity. Stupidity which had left a path of destruction throughout his career. Stupidity that had once caused him to fall in love and then lose it. And now here he was again, stuck caring for someone who didn’t remotely care for him. He hadn’t had a friend for so long that the idea of letting this one go made him dizzy. He kept thinking about his voice, that spilt second. Surely, he was going crazy, imagining glimmers of the man he lost in the one that showed him slithers of kindness.</p><p>Twelve days.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Just leave.</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>Thirteen days.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Just fucking leave.</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>If Owen was there, he would tell him to go. He would laugh, mocking his stubbornness, but it would all be forgotten in a second. He’d take his hand and led him away. He wouldn’t look back. They’d go home, they’d share a drink. Maybe, Owen would jab a little, but Curt always found a way to hit back. They knew how to jest but knew what to avoid. The places where they weren’t to tread went unspoken. Soon, all the pain of regret and mistakes would fade away until it didn’t exist at all. He was always safe as long as Owen was there.</p><p>But Owen wasn’t there. Owen wasn’t there because of him. In his absence every pain he’d taken away had been returned to him. At least with Michael had been company, a somewhat warming presence, though that warmth came from a murderous fire. It was comforting to have someone who was just as alone as him, not that Michael seemed to mind as much as he did. They had allies, but they only cared as long as they had a use for them. Having someone there who understood, even if they were on the other side of a great rift, had filled a hole that Curt hadn’t known was there. Now that he was gone, he’d taken the missing piece with him, leaving him just as empty and alone as before, only with a newfound awareness of what wasn’t there. So, he stayed, watching the days and nights pass him, hoping that somehow he was wrong. Somehow, this time, things would work out.</p><p>Fourteen days.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Please come back, Michael. </em>
  </strong>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Meanwhile 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Back at the American Secret Service HQ, Barb, Tatiana, and Cynthia standby for information on Curt and Michael's mission.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sorry for the delay on this one. I've been super busy. I look forward to everyone's comments.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As strange as the situation was, Tatiana’s infiltration was one of the most relaxing times she’d had in years. It had never been something she thought about consciously, but almost all her life had been plagued with chaos. There was always blood and bullets and fighting. For the first time, none of that had followed her. In fact, now that she’d figured out how to turn the alarms off, it was almost peaceful.  She’d expected some sort of resistance, but all she’d faced was Barb’s failed sabotage and Cynthia’s irritated yelling. If anything, it was simply awkward as she sat drinking tea with her new American associate. At least the food was free and decent.</p><p>It wouldn’t last much longer. Of that, Tatiana was sure. After all, that stupid spy and his tentative British comrade would be through with their mission soon and there was no way Curt Mega would let someone like her invade his headquarters. She’d gone through his files, every single one in order. By the time she’d reached the final page, the file that documented the bomb heist and their unfortunate meeting, it was as if she knew him like an old friend. She had so few of those now. The files told a story of man who joined the agency as soon as he had the chance, leaping headfirst into his training at just eighteen. He showed amazing potential in training but lacked restraint. The same puzzle solving exercises and training tasks were never truly failed, just never truly solved. The same lessons were taught but never learned. His solutions were crass, but they worked, until eventually they sent him into the field despite the red flags. He came to the agency bold. He came to the agency determined. He came to the agency utterly stupid. The amount of reprimands he’d received for careless on the job were endless, but the tales of his adventures always ended the same way.</p><p>
  <strong>Mission Objective: Achieved.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Closing Statement: Mission successful.</strong>
</p><p>And then they just stopped.</p><p>For four years Curt’s file sat blank and bare. The tales of his heroics untold. There was nothing special about the last page before the hiatus. It was short and to the point.</p><p>
  <strong>Mission Objective: Achieved.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Closing Statement: See Cavour file.</strong>
</p><p>“He’s late.” Barb muttered as she tapped her fingers against her mug. She used to be so conversational, but that was pretty much all she said now. On the first day it had been just a passing comment. The second day, a mild concern. The third, an all-consuming worry. Now nearly a fortnight after the gala with no word, thoughts of all the things that could have happened plagued Barb’s mind, drowning out all other thoughts. He didn’t care for her, not like she cared for him, but that didn’t stop her from always fearing for his safety. The four years without him had been lonely, but she knew he was out there. She knew he could be found should the need ever arise. Now she couldn’t shake the feeling she was about to lose him forever.</p><p>“Don’t worry. That man seems to work his way out of everything.”  Tatiana commented. Barb wasn’t wrong, of course. He was extremely late. A couple of days leeway on a mission wasn’t uncommon, but two weeks was almost unheard of it. There was no way to get newspapers into the locked off HQ and the extraction team was famously unreliable when it came to reporting back, so as far as information went, they were in a vacuum. All they could do was wait.</p><p>“Not by himself he doesn’t.” Barb scowled.</p><p>“The mans probably run off drunk.” Cynthia yelled through the cupboard door. She’d been extremely nonchalant about the situation. Tatiana had tried to read her file too, but she’d been with the agency for so long and done so much that it was impossible. She’d been out of the cupboard a few times for basic rest breaks but made no fuss when they ended. Tatiana was sure she could escape anytime she wanted, but her heart simply wasn’t in it. Maybe the small, isolated place was her version of a break, just as the headquarters was Tatiana’s.</p><p>“You underestimate him.” Said Tatiana.</p><p>“No, dear, I simply estimate him. I’m rarely wrong.”</p><p>“I think you are too harsh on him. Are you like this with all your agents?”</p><p>“She is.” Barb mumbled.</p><p>“I’m…motivational.” Cynthia replied.</p><p>“Motivational. Interesting. Perhaps I have the wrong definition of the word. Or perhaps you do.” Tatiana pondered.</p><p>“Well what would you rather I do? Play all nice and sweet? You don’t encourage strength by being soft, Tatiana. You hit your agents where it hurts, poke them where their weak, knock them down. Then you standby and teach them how to get back up again. Expose their weakness and make sure they know how to cover them. That way you know that when the time that you have to leave them finally comes, they’ll be able to stand up on their own. A little bit of poison every day, Tatiana, that’s how you get your agents back with bruises, not in boxes.”</p><p>The dusty fax machine whirred to life, buzzing and screeching as the sheet of paper slowly inched its way out. The bold black headline caught Tatiana’s eye.</p><p>
  <strong>Mission 39252 Progress Update</strong>
</p><p>She grabbed it as soon as the text finished printing, tearing the paper slightly at the bottom. Her eyes darted across the page, taking in only the bare essentials.</p><p>“What is it? What does it say?” Barb frantically prompted.</p><p>Tatiana gulped. The report didn’t beat about the bush. The information was clear.</p><p>
  <strong>Mission Objective: Failed.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Closing Statements: Prince Toygle Feurgin in enemy hands. Agent Curt Mega, MIA. Agency holding back until further instructions.</strong>
</p><p>“How will your story end, Curt?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. The Return</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Michael finally returns from his extended absence to find a drunk and broken Curt.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Content Warning for excessive alcohol consumption and implied suicidal ideation.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was the night of the 16<sup>th</sup> day when Michael returned. He’d tried to get away as soon as possible, but his team had been so alive with energy that he couldn’t escape the discussions and celebrations.  He should be grateful. By all accounts, he’d won. Everything he’d worked for was about to be set into motion. From a logical standpoint, going back to Curt was a waste. He’d brought his abandonment on himself after all. That man was so careless letting a prisoner run off like that. Yet Michael kept sensing a pull in his chest to go, to not let Curt be alone again.</p><p>As he expected, Curt had failed to heed his instructions and leave after three days. Michael could see his silhouette in the dying fire light. Stubborn to the very end that Curt. It could be a dangerous trait, but a life saving one.  He rounded the corner with a smile, turning up the charm. Curt barely seemed to care. He sat slumped against the far wall.</p><p>“You lived then.” Curt commented.</p><p>“Of course, I lived. My people aren’t as fickle as you think.” Michael grinned. “Besides, even if they were, I can handle myself. You can knock me down, but I always get back up again.”</p><p>“And you actually decided to come back, after all this time. How very kind of you.”</p><p>“Don’t ever doubt me, Mega.” Michael retorted, though there was no malice in his voice. Seeing Curt again had made him playful. Why wasn’t Curt reacting the same way? He normally at least pretended to have energy. He always threw back what Michael dished out. This was the way of things. This was their game. Michael spotted the half empty glass bottle in the agent’s hand. The remainder of its golden contents glistened in the flame. In his excitement to be back, Michael had skipped his usually checks of the area. Clearly Curt’s run in first and examine the situation later approach was starting to rub off on him. Now he could feel the sense of something suffocating pressing down on him. It was a feeling that everyone in his line of work knew well. He scanned around, noticing the empty bottles scattered on the floor. He sighed. Damn it, Curt.</p><p>“Why did you come back?” Curt mumbled.</p><p>“Where did you get all this?” Asked Michael.</p><p>“Answer my question.” Curt looked up. There was anger in his eyes, a burning rage that Michael had never seen before. But the fire hid an ocean. They were red and wet, the bags under them were heavy and as black as night.</p><p>“You don’t have any money. Did you rob a place?”</p><p>“No, asshole, I didn’t rob a place. Some of us still have morals. In case you haven’t noticed, my incompetence has started a political upheaval. People love a good riot.”</p><p>“So, you looted a place? That’s much better.” Michael rolled his eyes.</p><p>“You keep changing the subject. Why won’t you answer me?”</p><p>“I don’t have to tell you anything. I told you that I needed to talk to some people and that I would be back. Why can’t you just trust me?”</p><p>“Trust you?” Curt snapped. “Why would I trust you? I don’t know anything about you. I don’t know anything about you or what your end goal is. I don’t know whose side your actually on. Heck, I don’t even know your real name. I mean really, Michael Cornertable? What in God’s name made you think we would ever buy that?”</p><p>“I told you real names aren’t important.” Michael scowled. “Everything I keep from you is for your own good.”</p><p>“Yes well, I’ve felt real safe rambling around the Belgium countryside with Michael Fakenamingson, real secure.”</p><p>“Alright, I think you’ve had enough of that.” Michael snatched the bottle from Curt’s hands. Curt made a futile attempt at resistance, but his uncoordinated limbs refused to comply and all he could do was pathetically grab at the air. Michael poured the drink onto the ground, letting in flow in dusty little rivers across the floor, before throwing the bottle to the side, causing it to shatter. “I see now why you were on hiatus for so long. You clearly can’t be trusted on your own.”</p><p>“Don’t act like you know me.”</p><p>“I do know you, Curt. Better than you think. You want to be this hero, this spy that always gets the job done no matter what, but clearly you can’t take the knocks like you used. What happened to the man who got back up no matter how far he fell?”</p><p>“He died.”  The warehouse fell silent. Curt looked down, avoiding eye contact. Michael sighed and took sat himself against the wall next time to him. “It was my fault, you know?”</p><p>“No, it wasn’t. We just didn’t get there in time. We can’t control everything.” Michael reminded him.</p><p>“I wasn’t talking about the bomb.” Curt replied quietly.</p><p>“Right, Owen.” Michael muttered. No matter what happened there would always be Owen. His ghost would haunt them both until the end of time.</p><p>“I was such a fucking idiot. I thought I could get away with acting like a cocky bastard. I took risks and he died because of them. One little slip, that’s all it took. One little slip took the greatest man I knew away from him. I…I think he died on impact. God, I hope he died on impact.”</p><p>“You didn’t check?” Michael asked, though it sounded much closer to an accusation than I question.</p><p>“No.” Curt shook his head. “I should have, but there wasn’t time. We had this dumb bet going, I don’t remember who started it. I guess it doesn’t matter now. We always wanted to see how fast we could get ourselves out of a dire situation. Not to brag but we could be pretty bloody fast. Anyway, the lowest he thought we could go was four, but I wanted to one up him. I forced him to try for three. I was so shaky and panicked after he went down, I could barely think. I honestly don’t even remember leaving, just everything that came after. I’m sure that if I had gone back neither of us would have made it out alive, but maybe that’s the way it should have been. We fought together; we should have gone down together.”</p><p>“What good would that have done?”</p><p>“Then it should have been me.” He replied before there was silence again. “He wanted to be an actor, if he wasn’t trapped in this life. Just imagine that. Owen Cavour, the actor. He would have been good at it too. It’s…nice to think that’s how things are somewhere in out in the infinite scope of things. That Curt Mega died on some pointless mission and Owen Cavour is an actor.”</p><p>“I don’t see why you have to be dead.” Michael shrugged. “Maybe in this alternate universe neither of you became spies. Maybe you’re a…I don’t know a fireman or a singer or something. You’d probably never meet, but you’d both be safe and alive. Maybe there’s a universe where you’re both happy.”</p><p>“No. Trust me, there’s no universe where I’m happy without Owen.”</p><p>Michael sat in the cold quiet, trying to untangle the ball of emotions fighting each other in his chest. An ancient anger was boiling. Anger at what Curt had done, at the way he acted while on missions. Anger for the sake of Owen, a man that he too thought he had left behind. But neither of them had ever truly moved on from the man who died on the concrete floor. Owen Cavour lived on in them both. Now a new emotion radiated from him, a feeling he hadn’t felt in many years. Pity. Pity for a broken man, holding himself together with a string of confident lies.</p><p>“Look for what it’s worth, it’s clear you’re trying your best. Can you be a little rash? Yes. Do you sometimes act like kind of an idiot? Absolutely. But at least you’re making an effort. I think Owen would see that. In fact, if Owen could see you right now, I think he’d be proud of you.”</p><p>“You think so?” Asked Curt, looking up.</p><p>“Yeah. Well, maybe not <em>right </em>now.” Michael smirked, causing Curt laugh through the welling tears. “But generally speaking, I know he would be. I think…I think he’d forgive you, Curt.” His voice was soft and warm. There was a gentleness Curt would never had expected from a ruthless man. Tears flowed down his cheeks, but not from sadness. For the first time in four years, there was a sense of peace.</p><p>“Thank you.” Curt sniffed.</p><p>“Anytime. Now please go to sleep before you cause yourself anymore damage.” Michael said firmly. Curt nodded and settled himself down on the hard floor, falling asleep within minutes. Michael bit his lip and got up, calling on all his training to be as quiet as possible. He cleared up the bottles, tended the fire, kept a protective eye over the sleeping Curt. He was dreaming no doubt and Michael could only hope he was having a good one. Perhaps there he would find some relief.</p><p>“Stupid man.” Michael whispered to himself. “You’ve hurt yourself more than I ever could.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Back In Action</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Curt might be ready to give up, but Michael isn't so easily dissuaded. All it takes is a little encouragement.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Curt woke up with a pounding headache. His throat was dry and sticky and the warm sunbeams leaking through the walls was painfully bright. He groaned and sat up, taking a long breath of the cold air. He smelt awful. Over two weeks without a shower can do that to a man. He peered over to find a gift waiting: a bottle of water, a pre-packaged sandwich, and set of clean everyday clothes, neatly folded. He looked up. Michael sat poking the cold of ash of the fire. He too had changed clothes to a fresh polo shirt and trousers. He must have heard the movement, because he turned his attention to Curt.</p><p>“Good morning.” Michael smiled.</p><p>“Ah morning.” Curt blushed. Embarrassment burnt in his cheeks. After everything he admitted, all the weakness he’d shown, there was no way he could go back to acting like the man with the plan. “W-where did you get all this?”</p><p>“You’re not the only one who go looting, dear. How you feeling?”</p><p>“Pretty awful.” Curt admitted. “How about you?”</p><p>“Well enough.” Michael sighed. “Eat and drink quickly. We’ve got places to be.”</p><p>“We do? Since when?”</p><p>“We’ve a mission to complete, remember?” Sure, we dropped the ball on the bomb, not great for us.”</p><p>“Or for anyone else.” Curt added.</p><p>“Exactly.” Michael agreed as he moved to sit next to Curt. “But every great spy story has that…end of act one disaster, otherwise you’d have nothing to write home about.”</p><p>“You really shouldn’t be writing home about missions anyway, Michael, it’s called the secret service for a reason.”</p><p>“Will you stop interrupting and let me finish?” Michael scowled. “We lost the bomb, but we haven’t lost the prince.”</p><p>“You…you know where he is?” Asked Curt.</p><p>“You don’t think I’ve spent the last two weeks drinking cheap champagne and eating Hors d'oeuvre, do you? I mean…I have, but I’ve also been doing some asking around. We’ve got him hidden right under his government’s noses.” Michael explained.</p><p>“In his own country?”</p><p>“The New Democratic Republic of Old Socialist Prussian Sloviskia.” Michael nodded.</p><p>“Such a mouthful.” Curt muttered.</p><p>“I have locations, I have codes, and I haven’t a good issue to sneak around a compound breaking things in four years. We need to do this.”</p><p>“I don’t know. Hostage negotiation takes more time and resources than we can afford to commit right now.” Curt sighed.</p><p>“Are you going to spend your whole life parroting what Cynthia tells you or are you going to step up and be the man you’re supposed to be?” Michael snapped.</p><p>“I urr…” Curt struggled for words, stunned by Michael’s bluntness.</p><p>“Besides, it’s not a negotiation. It’s a bloody demand. We’re not asking for the prince, we’re taking him.”</p><p>“O-okay, yeah. Yeah, let’s do this.” He nodded. “How dare the baron try to mess with us? I bet he’s not even a real doctor. We’re not going to take any of this laying down. We’re going to get out there, we’re going to get the prince, and we’re going to save that bloody alphabet spaghetti soup of a country.”</p><p>“Or we’re going to die trying.”</p><p>“Well…”</p><p>“A stunning comeback for Curt Mega and Michael Cornertable.” Michael exclaimed, pulling a firm arm around Curt.</p><p>“You know you can pick another name, right? Nobody would mind.”</p><p>“No, I’m committed to it at this point. There’s no going back.” Michael smirked, letting Curt go. “Now get dressed. The sooner we move the sooner we win.”</p><p>Curt nodded and reached for the shirt. Michael returned to absent minded prodding the white remains of the fire.</p><p>“Um…h-hey Michael.” Curt stuttered. “About last night.”</p><p>“Don’t worry about it. Happens to the best of us.”</p><p>“No, I know. It’s just…you never answered my question.” He said quietly.</p><p>“What question?”</p><p>“Why did you come back?”</p><p>“I…” Michael paused. He racked his brain to find what might be considered the ‘correct’ answer, only to come to the conclusion that there wasn’t one. “I don’t know. Maybe this mission will help me figure it out.”</p><p>Curt nodded, satisfied, and started to get dressed. It shared the water and sandwich with Michael, before heading out into the new day. The warehouse would sit abandoned for a decade more before being demolished, their presence and their story there remaining forever unknown. By the middle of the day they were gone from the city. They’d left Switzerland by nightfall, never to return.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sorry it's a short chapter. I wasn't sure whether to have a long chapter with the events of the next in as well, but I've been very tired and wanted a kind of light hearted part. I look forward to hearing your thoughts in the comments.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. New Democratic Et Cetera Et Cetera</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In the new and confusingly named country, Michael and Curt mount a rescue mission like no other.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The compound was a grey concrete complex, cold and indistinct. Though it was still autumn, winter winds had started to set in, and light snow had started to fall. Michael and Curt scouted out the area from the distance of a wooden balcony under the cover of night. Guards paced back and forth, protecting the entrance with primed vigilance. The rifles in their hands assured anyone who might see that they meant business.</p><p>“Not going to lie to you, Curt. This is going to be a tough one.” Michael commented.</p><p>“You got a plan?” Asked Curt.</p><p>“Oh yeah, I’ve got a plan.” He nodded. “Got any pre-mission rituals?”</p><p>“Not really. Kind of just hope for the best you know?”</p><p>“Confessions? You know in case this goes wrong.”</p><p>“Well…” There were so many things he could admit. All the drunken mistakes, all the people who he never admitted to caring about. Michael probably wasn’t the person to say these things to, though he was the closest thing to a trustworthy person in the area. Probably one of the most trustworthy people he’d known for a while. Still, he shook his head. There was no need to let more secrets out than he already he had. They were going to get out of all this, one way or another. “No, none. How about you?”</p><p>“Well…there is one thing.” Said Michael. “I’m not actually the deadliest man alive. Not by a long shot actually.”</p><p>“Oh yeah?” Curt laughed.</p><p>“Where do you think I would get the time to kill a thousand one hundred and forty-seven random people in multiple countries? I’m a busy man, Curt, I don’t have the time or need to kill a bunch of bratty teens who don’t know what’s going on. Nah, the whole ‘deadliest man alive’ thing was just to stop people messing with me. Works like a charm.” Michael explained.</p><p>“You know it sounds strange but I’m not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. It was kind of nice having a weapon of mass destruction as my travel companion.”</p><p>“If it helps, I think I met the actual deadliest man alive once. His name was Pierre Abreo. He cornered me in an alley and came at me with a machete.”</p><p>“And?” Curt prompted.</p><p>“Killed him, hid the body, took his title.” Michael smirked.</p><p>“Sneaking. You really are one of us.” Curt nudged.</p><p>“Maybe. Come on, lets go.”</p><p>The pair snuck down from the balcony and headed silently towards the compound, moving swiftly through the nearby foliage. They split up, taking the opportunity to target a guard each. Michael gave Curt a firm nod, signalling the moment to strike. Both hit down hard on the guards’ heads, causing them to silently fall to the ground. Michael gave him a thumbs up as they reunited at the door.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Just like old times.</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>Michael grabbed one of the guard’s IDs cards and swiped it in the reader on the side of the door. It beeped politely as the metal doors slid upon, revealing a long narrowing corridor. Curt cautiously followed behind Michael, being careful not to arouse suspicion. A few second later they emerged in stairwell, heading up. They started their ascent towards a blue door on a landing at the top. They froze as the lock clicked and a tall, black haired scientist walked out. It seemed the man was far too distracted by a clipboard in his hands to notice them straight away. Curt unholstered his gun. He was about to fire when he noticed Michael out of the corner of his eye, shaking his head. Curt sighed internally and waited for the hapless scientist to wander passed. The presence of the two outsiders in the compound registered with him far too late as Curt’s gun struck his temple. He let out a small cry, not remotely loud enough to alert anyone, before crumpling to the floor.</p><p>“Sorry.” Curt whispered.</p><p>They advanced through the open door. Another, wider corridor lay beyond. The walls were dirty white, the lights were a sickly blinding yellow. The sides were lined by identical black doors. Curt headed forwards. The doors were distinguished by numbers and letters, painted in white against the black.</p><p>“What room?” Curt asked.</p><p>“330.” Said Michael.</p><p>They headed passed the rows of doors. 325. 326. 327. Carefully counting, eyes trained on the numbers. 328. 329. 330. They primed themselves by the door. Curt jiggled the handle. He knew the chances of it being unlocked were slim, but he couldn’t pass up the opportunity of a possible easy solution. Just as he expected, firmly locked.</p><p>“You got a key?” Asked Curt.</p><p>“No. I couldn’t ask for one without seeming suspicious.” Michael explained. “Do you have a lock pick?”</p><p>“Um…” Curt rooted around his pockets before remembering that his clothes were brand new. While he’d managed to hang onto his gun throughout the entire trip, everything else had been lost along the way. “No. Sorry.”</p><p>“It’s fine. Can you hear anyone coming?” Michael asked. Curt kept an ear out and was met with pleasant silence.</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Alright, stand back.” Michael backed up a couple of steps. Before Curt had the chance to ask what he was doing, Michael charged into the door shoulder first. The security budget most have either been extremely low or being funnelled off somewhere, because the flimsy wood shattered and fell to the ground, along with Michael.</p><p>“You okay?” Asked Curt.</p><p>“I’m fine.” Michael groaned. He got to his feet. The room was small and dark, with barely room for the single metal bed.  Prince Toygle Feurgin sat on the bed, gently humming to himself. For a man who had been kidnapped, he was remarkably calm. After over two weeks, Curt supposed he’d grown used to it. Then again, if reports of Toygle Feurgin’s intelligence (or lack thereof) were to be believed, it was possibly that he had no idea he’d been kidnapped to begin with.</p><p>“It’s alright. You’re free. You can leave.” Curt announced, only to be met with a blank stare. “Leave.” Toygle Feurgin shrugged and left without a word.</p><p>“Let’s see him out.” Said Michael. “If we go the same way we came we can be out in two minutes and back home by-“ Blaring alarms and red emergency lights cut him off before he could finish. He let out a deep, irritated sigh. He knew it was all too easy.</p><p>“Alarmed door?” Asked Curt.</p><p>“Alarmed door.” Michael nodded.</p><p>“So…we run?”</p><p>“Works for me.”</p><p>They ran back towards the stairwell. The clatter of rapidly approaching footsteps echoed towards them. Stairwell was a no go.</p><p>“Alternate plans?” Curt urged.</p><p>“I think there’s a fire escape at the end of this corridor.”</p><p>“Got it.” They changed direction, only to be met with the same noise of an approaching army.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Found the security budget.</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>“How many bullets have you got in that gun?” Asked Michael.</p><p>“Four.” Curt replied. He jumped as an over ambitious admin clerk, who had been hiding in one of the many rooms, attempted to lunge. Taken off guard, Curt swung his gun around and shot the man in the chest. “Make that three.”</p><p>“Great.” So, they were surrounded. Curt could make three bullets count, Michael knew that, but there was no chance of it being enough. He had his knife still, but what good would that do? There was no point bringing a knife to a gun fight. That just left one option. An option he never wanted to use. He grabbed Curt’s shoulders and spun him around. Curt had been perfectly fine in the heat of the moment, but the shock of the turn had caused his eyes to go wide. Michael ignored it. He couldn’t afford to be deterred. He hung on tight, pressing firmly on Curt’s shoulders. “Curt, listen to me. I have a plan. It’s a stupid plan, a really, really stupid plan, but it’s the best shot we’ve got.”</p><p>“Okay. Sure, go for it. I’m ready for whatever.”</p><p>“Before I do this, I need to know you trust me.”</p><p>“What?” Curt laughed nervously.</p><p>“Curt, please this is important. Do you trust me?” His voice was so frantic. His accent was strange, like it kept slipping in and out. Curt was just starring at him like he’d grown an extra head.</p><p>“Yes…yes I trust you.” Curt nodded.</p><p>“Then please forgive me for this one last confession.”</p><p>Michael stepped forward. Curt placed his gun in his holster, entranced by what was happening. Michael touched the back of nape of his neck. Curt had never noticed it before, it wasn’t the sort of thing he would have looked for even when he was considered a good agent, but there was a faint, thin line on there where the skin seemed to break for just a second. Michael lifted up ever as carefully, lifting away the mask of a face Curt had come to know. Curt kept his eyes fixed on him, unable to look away as the mask dropped to the ground. In front of him was a painfully familiar mop of smooth, black hair. He was no allusion, no mere hallucination. The ghost of a man was clear and alive in front of him. It was like a magic trick, a reappearing act that Curt had watched so many times, but never quite like this. Their attackers rounded the corner, their guns trained on the pair, but Curt remained frozen, unable to move or talk. The man who had never been Michael raised his hands into the air. A smug smirk spread across his face.</p><p>“Gentleman.” Owen’s voice rang out clear and true, as confident as the day he died. “I believe there’s been a misunderstanding.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. 1957</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>1957. Russia. Owen wakes up in hospital, scared and in pain, but certainly not alone.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I really haven't been giving Owen a good time of it on this page, have I?</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Do you think he’s going to die?”</p><p>That was the first thing Owen heard as he started to regain consciousness. One second, he was on the cold, hard ground, fighting to keep breathing, and the next he was laying somewhere warm, covered in thin sheets. The voice sounded unfamiliar and so very far away, though Owen was sure the speaker was close. It was the voice of a young Russian man, still inexperienced in the way the world could be.</p><p>“No. He’ll live.” An older man replied.</p><p>“Why can’t we just kill him?”</p><p>“Be quiet, Alexander.”</p><p>Owen slowly opened his eyes. His eyelids were heavy, and the light hurt him, but he resisted the urge to close them again. He squinted to try and force his vision into coherent shapes. He managed to make out the rows of white, neatly made, empty beds, one row opposite him, one row to his right, with a clear walkway in between. He managed to roll his head slightly to the right, wincing in pain as he did so. The cleanly shaven young man sat on the edge of the bed next to him, looking to the man who must have been his mentor. His arm was in a sling, but he was otherwise uninjured. The older man sat in the space between both beds in a wheelchair. He looked so strangely familiar.</p><p>“Good morning. So, you managed not to die. Good for you.” The older man commented.</p><p>Owen tried to fight back nausea. His throat was dry and his whole body ached. His thoughts were unclear as the they swam around his head. Only one thought stayed clear, one person.</p><p>“Curt.” He groaned.</p><p>“No.” The older man snorted. “Guess again.”</p><p>“…Olag?” He realised as his vision finally became clear. “You’re-“</p><p>“Alive? Yes, just as you predicted.” Olag smiled. “As are you, just about. Alexander dragged you out of the building thinking you were one of ours, but we both know better than that, don’t we?”</p><p>“Where is he? Where’s Curt?” Owen grumbled.</p><p>“The American? He’s gone.” Olag laughed.</p><p>“H-he’s dead?” He stuttered.</p><p>“No, he’s not dead. Last I checked he’s alive and well. He’s just not here.”</p><p>“I…I don’t understand.”</p><p>“He left without you. He left you for dead.” Olag explained.</p><p>“No. No, you’re lying. You’re-“  Owen tried to sit up, but he only got a few inches upright before his body refused to go any further. A jolt of pain raced through him, forcing him back down. He hated to look weak in front of his presumed captor, but he couldn’t help it. He cried out as tear ran down his cheeks. Olag watched silently, his expression unchanging.</p><p>“That was rather stupid of you.” Olag commented. “You should probably stay laying down for a little bit.”</p><p>“What do you want from me?” Owen snapped.</p><p>“I won’t lie to you, Mr Cavour, under any other circumstance I would probably just kill you.”</p><p>“Great. I wish you would hurry up about it.” Owen chuckled in an attempt to cover his pain racked sobs.</p><p>“But I’ve been watching you for a long time. Staying in your shadow, playing the fool. You have some skills, Mr Cavour. Skills that certain people could use.” Olag explained.</p><p>“The soviets?” Owen scoffed. “I’d never work for them. They’re vile people. They go against everything a moral society believe in.”</p><p>“Hmm, that’s funny. The soviets say the exact same thing about you. But no, I don’t mean the soviets. The group I work for doesn’t concern themselves with such petty international squabbles. Communist, capitalist. Russian, American. It’s all immaterial in the end.”</p><p>“Then…what do you concern yourself with?”</p><p>“Unity.”</p><p>“You have a very funny way of showing it.” Owen muttered.</p><p>“Don’t interrupt me.” Olag scowled.</p><p>“Or else what?”</p><p>“My friend, you’re the one injured in bed right now. I think you’d do well to listen.” Said Alexander softly. Owen stopped. He was good with combative situations. He could spare with his hands and his words any day, but something about Alexander’s calmness chilled him into silence.</p><p>“Thank you, Alexander.” Olag nodded. “In this world, lines have been drawn by people who don’t care for the lives they play with. Your life, for example. You’ve been played from the very start. They recruit men like you with big hearts and tiny minds and convince them the only way to protect the people they love is to maintain those stupid little lines, even if it means destroying so much more along the way. But I see a brain in you, Mr Cavour, one they must have overlooked. The organisation I’m part of aims to break down this system that places the world in the hands of idiots and build it back up again from ground level.”</p><p>“Burn the world down and build atop its ruins.” Owen mumbled.</p><p>“Urgh, you English are so dramatic.” Olag rolled his eyes. “I assure you we’re not trying to burn anything. This would be quite painless if it wasn’t for outside interference. Governments tend to be quite stubborn.”</p><p>“Can’t think why.”</p><p>“You’re very hard to talk to, you know? But I don’t blame you. You’re a smart man, but those idiots have got you brain washed.” Olag sighed.</p><p>“They’re not idiots.” Owen snapped. “The people you disparage are good men, loyal men. We fight for each other in a way that you could never possibly understand.”</p><p>“Then where are they now?” Asked Alexander. Owen’s heart sank. Surely Curt hadn’t meant to leave him? He wouldn’t leave him injured on purpose, would he? He made bad decisions, awful, terrible decisions, but he would never do that. Not to him. It was the two of them against the world forever, no matter what. He wouldn’t just leave. But the question still hung there. Where was he? Why hadn’t he rescued him yet?</p><p>“Let’s face facts, Mr Cavour, they don’t care about you. They never did.” Said Olag.</p><p>“They wouldn’t…he…he wouldn’t…” Owen tried to make sense of his thoughts. The pain still persisted, but it was different now. His injuries barely bothered him, but the longing for everything to go away, to wake up to find that it was all a nightmare and Curt was by his side, consumed him, filling his chest with a silent scream that struggled to keep repressed.</p><p>“You’re still in shock. You fell pretty hard. How you didn’t break your neck I’ll never know. Try to get some rest.” Said Olag as he got to his feet. Alexander looked up and started to follow.</p><p>“What…what happens now?” Owen managed to ask.</p><p>“Now? Nothing. Tomorrow? Who knows?” Olag shrugged. “It’s your choice in the end. You’re welcome to try your luck out there and crawl back to your ‘friends’. It’ll be interesting to see how you do as a broken little asset. But if you actually want to part of something truly noble, you be sure to let me know.”</p><p>The pair walked away, closing the door behind them. Owen listened for the distinctive click of a lock, but none came. He kept an ear out for the sound of movement or footsteps outside, trying to hear any clue that there might be guards out there. Again, nothing. He was completely alone. There was nothing stopping him from trying to leave, though he wasn’t sure that he was physically capable of walking. But what would be the point? Where would he go? There was nobody to help him now and he couldn’t do it all alone. It didn’t matter whether Curt had deliberately left him or not, the point  was that he was gone. His best hope of survival was to blend in with Chimera, at least for the time being, and hope that he could find an out.</p><p>And so, the days passed, turning swiftly into weeks, into months, into years. He healed and retrained and obeyed. He spent a lot of time alone in those first few months, sitting in agony with nothing but his thoughts for nightmarish entertainment. He relived every mission, every accident, every mistake. All the insistences that could have been so simple if he hadn’t let Curt drag him into the mild of some unnecessary chaos. And then he thought of all their ‘highlights’, their ‘heroics’. How many lives had they ended or ruined for the sake of winning a war that had never even started? For many years he’d been trained to follow orders and not ask questions, they all had. His associates had been rendered so stupid that they couldn’t see they were doing more harm than good.</p><p>But not him.</p><p>He’d been blind once, but now he could see everything. There was still a brain in him. Owen Cavour never been a hero, no noble man, but if he started again, he could still make a difference in the world. So, he gave Chimera everything, little by little, slowly but surely. His loyalty, his freedom, his name, his face, until the man he was may as well have been dead. As Owen he’d been a fool, building his own prison around himself. As Michael, he was free to dismantle it all brick by brick, to take down everything Owen was and ever had been, until even his love was dead. At least, so he believed.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. The People We Become</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Having been captured by Chimera's forces, Curt finds himself in a somewhat familiar situation.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Curt watched as Owen walked away, approaching the group in front of them with a casual demeanour. The armed men instantly relaxed. They lowered their guns and turned their heads to reverently listen to him talk. Curt could see his lips move. He could hear his golden laugh. The words were clear enough, but Curt wasn’t processing any of it. All he could do was watch. It didn’t feel real. It was like he was watching through a stranger’s eyes or through the veil of a dream, like reality itself was no longer attached to him.</p><p>“Owen.” He called out, gaining awareness of the situation for just a second. Owen glanced back, catching his eye. For a moment, Curt could have sworn he saw a hint of desperation in his former lover’s gaze, before something hard struck him over the head, and he saw nothing at all.</p><p>When he woke up, Curt half expected to be back on the floor of the warehouse, being awoken by the familiar look of Michael’s half playful judgement. Instead, he found himself dealing with a different familiar experience. A far less pleasant one.</p><p>Owen’s men had shoved him into one of the side rooms, leaving him in a place identical to the one they had found Toygle Feurgin. They’d taken the time to put a rather uncomfortable wooden chair in there and placed it at the back the room. He sat awkwardly slumped onto, his hands tied firmly behind him with thick, tight rope. This was the standard affair, making it one of the few standard things that had happened to him all month. He looked up at the three men stood a few steps into the room. Two guards stood loyally to attention by Owen, one at each side. Owen’s scowl was harsh and cold, a hint of fury running through his brown eyes. Curt fought back the urge to gulp and said nothing as he spotted the crowbar resting in Owen’s hands.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>This cannot be real.</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>“Leave him with me. This won’t take long.” Said Owen. Curt took a shaky breath, unable to stop himself. There was no way he could imagine that voice. For years he’d seen his face and heard his laugh, both in the sanctuary of dreams and in the prison of waking nightmares, but even on his darkest nights, his mind had never quite been able to capture Owen’s voice.</p><p>The men nodded and left. Curt kept his eyes fixed on the man in front of him. Owen averted his gaze, watching the door as it clicked shut. He waited. The next five seconds dragged on for what felt like hours. Finally, he moved again. He sighed with relief and threw the crowbar aside. His expression softened as he ran his hand through his hair.</p><p>“Phew, that was a close one. It’s a real good job they’d already got what they wanted from the Prince otherwise they’d probably have shot first, asked questions later and then we’d both be toast. Listen, I’m not sure how long I have. They still think we’re enemies and I got caught up in some <em>very </em>confusing double cross scheme, which I guess I kind of did but that’s not important. The point is I’m going to need you to play along.” Owen explained, talking at a speed Curt struggled to keep up with.</p><p>“You…you absolute bastard, I swear I’m going to kill you myself.” Curt managed to snap as he started trying to tug himself free. His mind was still cloudy, though whether that was from the shock or the hit he couldn’t be sure.</p><p>“See, that’s great. Absolutely loving that energy from you.” Owen exclaimed. “Um, that being said, those ropes are actually very tight. Don’t want you hurting yourself. Here, let me help you.”</p><p>Owen approached him and loosen the ropes. They dropped to the floor in coiled rings. Curt’s posture relaxed as he released a breath and freed his hands.</p><p>“There. Much better. This is probably the most painless captive situation we’ve ever had.” Owen smiled as he returned to the front.</p><p>“You’re dead.” Curt scowled.</p><p>“Ah, well funny story about that actually. You see-“</p><p>“You’re supposed to be dead.” Curt shouted.</p><p>“Oh, well I’m very sorry to have disappointed you.” Owen laughed.</p><p>“You know I didn’t mean it like that.” Curt huffed. “So, you’ve been out there this whole time? This last four years when I was mourning, when I thought I’d killed you, you’ve been alive and well?”</p><p>“Alive, yes. I think well is somewhat subject to debate.” Owen sighed.</p><p>“Why would you do this? After everything we went through together, everything we meant to each other, and you never even thought to contact me? A letter would have been nice. A simple, ‘heads up, I’m not dead’, anything just to know you were okay.” Curt was still shouting, but his rage did little to cover his tears. He didn’t care about pretending to be strong anymore, not in front of Owen.</p><p>“Curt, please-“ Owen said softly.</p><p>“And then you go pull this, this little ‘Michael’ stunt. I did find it weird that you knew things about me and Cynthia that you shouldn’t have. I chalked some of it up to having good intel, but the whole fire fighter thing. I thought to myself ‘Curt, isn’t weird that he used fire fighter as an example? You never told anyone you wanted to be a fire fighter as a kid’, but I did tell someone. I told <em>you.</em> Y-you listened to me talk and grief and act and all that time you were sat right there, right in front of me.”</p><p>“It wasn’t easy.” Owen admitted. “Would it have been better if I never came back at all?”</p><p>“Yes.” Curt snapped. “N-no. No. I…I don’t know. It would have been better if you never left in the first place.”</p><p>“I know.” Owen nodded.</p><p>“Four years, Owen.” Curt said quietly. “Four years you left me.”</p><p>“I-“</p><p>“I <em>needed </em>you.” He sobbed.</p><p>“Oh you did, did you?” Owen scowled. “You needed me. Well I needed you too, Curt. I needed you when I fell and you never came. I needed you when I was in hospital and you never came. I needed you when I was inducted into Chimera and you never fucking came. And I knew you couldn’t, I knew you didn’t know, but trying to get a bumbling idiot like involved with something so complex would be like…like dropping a banana peel on an escape route. One big recipe for disaster.”</p><p>“That’s not fair.” Curt gulped.</p><p>“Isn’t it? Do you know how badly it hurts to mourn someone who you know is still alive? I cried for you and everyone of your stupid little imperfections until my grief turned into venom. You wouldn’t believe the monster I made from my memories. You had your friends and your mum and so many people who would have opened their hearts to you if you had let them. What did I have? You were my everything. I never did get around to telling you that.”</p><p>“We always thought we had more time.” Curt muttered. “Owen?”</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“Everything that’s happened after the last few weeks, everything you said to me as Michael, was all of that a lie?”</p><p>“No. Not all of it.” Owen mumbled.</p><p>“Then which parts were real?”</p><p>“Curt don’t you see that it doesn’t matter anymore? We’re spies. We can start a new life whenever we want. <em>You</em> can start a new life. You can join us.” Owen smiled and crouched down besides him, taking his hand in his. Owen’s hands were soft and warm. Curt hadn’t realised how much he’d craved that touch.</p><p>“What happened to being a bumbling idiot?” Curt laughed.</p><p>“You are.” Owen shrugged. “But you’re my bumbling idiot. And you can learn. All you need is better training.”</p><p>“Owen, this is ridiculous.”</p><p>“It would be so easy, Curt. These men trust me unconditionally. All I’d have to do is say the word. Curt, I’ve wasted so much time thinking I hated you, that it was somehow you and your mistakes I was fighting against, but now I see this was never your fault. It was them, the unfeeling organisations that made you this way. Of course you’re arrogant. How could you be anything else with them leading you? But I know you can change. You’ve already started. We can destroy this world of secrets together.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Like I said, we already got what we wanted. The resources to create a network unlike anything this world has ever seen. Chimera is going to create a world with so many watchers that nobody will ever need to hide again, because there won’t be anywhere <em>to</em> hide. No more agencies, no more spies, no more secrets. A perfectly see through existence. We can make it happen together, Curt. You can be the hero you want to be.”</p><p>“You want me to betray my own country.” Curt muttered.</p><p>“Don’t you understand? There won’t be anything left to betray. Chimera set me free, Curt. Let me do the same for you.”</p><p>Curt went silent as he thought about it. He’d always given so much for his country and for the secret service, what had they ever done for him but break his heart? Now everything he’d ever wanted was right beside him. Owen. His Owen. His heart. It was a small price to pay for such a prize. A yet…</p><p>“I can’t.” Curt replied. “There are people out there who have good reason to keep secrets. I won’t abandon them, not for anyone. Not even you.”</p><p>“How very noble.” Owen smiled sadly.</p><p>“What can I say? You always inspire the right decision in me.” Curt sighed. “So what now?”</p><p>“I think you know. Make it look real. Just try to not leave a mark.”</p><p>Curt nodded. He swung his fist round hard, striking Owen in the cheek, before making a break for the door. The guards starred at him, unsure of what to do next. They hadn’t expected to see action again that day.</p><p>“Don’t go after him.” Owen ordered as he stumbled to his feet. “I’m sorting this one myself.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Meanwhile 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Hidden in a small office, Curt takes one last opportunity to contact A.S.S HQ.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Just a heads up, the next few updates might be further apart. Not saying they definitely will be, but it seems very likely. I've been really struggling to keep speed up and I have two imminent deadlines already. I really hope you be patient with me because I absolutely love hearing from you all. Seeing your comments is extremely rewarding.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tatiana had always made a point of not caring about people too deeply. It was a waste of time. In her line of work, people often died or left or both, though not in that order. It was best to care for herself and herself only, with all ties easy to cut. Why then was she so worried about the two men lost on mission? She didn’t even know them, not really. Her one interaction with Curt had been brief and Michael had never been much of a conversationalist. By all rights, to care about them out of all the people she’d met was a supreme waste of her time and energy.</p><p>Perhaps her worry came from Barb. She was clearly a smart woman, but she was also a little ball of nerves, and her panic was simply too much for one person to contain. So it seeped into Tatiana, infecting her normally clearly mind. She was quiet about it, far from terrible, ranting hysteria, and that made it all the worse. For hours Barb sat starring at the phone, waiting for updates, until the hanging tension suffocated Tatiana to the point she had to intervene. She forced a distraction with a pack of cards. She even let Cynthia out of for the occasion, not that she seemed too pleased about being dragged back into the open.</p><p>“Hold.” Cynthia muttered.</p><p>“Um…go fish?” Barb asked as she inspected her cards.</p><p>“Neither of you have any idea how to play poker, do you?” Tatiana grumbled.</p><p>The sound of ringing cut through the air. Tatiana sighed with relief as she reached forward. Finally, some outside interaction.</p><p>“Ahem.” Cynthia cleared her throat. Tatiana looked up to see the middle-aged woman starring daggers at her.</p><p>“Fine.” She mumbled as she sat back down.</p><p>“Thank you.” Cynthia smiled sourly as she picked up the phone. “Hello, you’ve reached A.S.S headquarters, Cynthia Houston speaking.”</p><p>“Cynthia? I thought you’d been captured.” Asked a shaken but confused Curt. He crutched behind a desk in an abandoned office, though the more time that passed the less necessary it felt. Alarms were blaring, he could hear them echo through the corridors, but nobody seemed to be looking for him. In fact, nobody seemed to be doing much of anything. His presence had barely been acknowledged since he escaped Owen.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Escaping Owen.</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>Now there was something he’d never thought he’d have to. Still it hadn’t been a fight. Owen genuinely seemed to belief that Chimera could somehow reunite them, that betrayal was somehow justice. When they met eyes, he saw the same wild flame that he’d fallen in love with so many years ago, and somehow that stung more than if he had been by coldness. Would he have preferred it if there had been fight? He’d never know and that hurt all the more.</p><p>“Well I could say the same about you.” Cynthia replied, snapping him back to reality. “Do you really think a cupboard would hold me for nearly a month? No Curt, while I admit I was taken by surprise, this is no mere hostage situation. This is a budget holiday. None of my useless employees have bothered me this whole time, bar Barb and you, of course.”</p><p>“Can I talk to Tatiana, please?” Curt huffed.</p><p>“Excuse me, Curt, who’s the boss here, me or Tatiana?”</p><p>“You.” Curt grumbled, though if he had the time, he was sure he could make a pretty good case for Tatiana.</p><p>“Very good. Now tell me what’s going on.” She ordered.</p><p>“Well, that’s kind of a long story.” How could he even begin to explain the web of lies he’d found himself unwillingly caught in. Especially since some irrational part of him didn’t want to risk getting Owen into trouble. He’d already done that once, however unintentionally, and while the consequences hadn’t been what they’d seemed, they still rippled through both their lives four years later.</p><p>“You’re supposed to be an expert, Curt. Summarise.”</p><p>“Michael…isn’t who we thought.”</p><p>“He’s not the deadliest man alive?”</p><p>“That’s not what I meant. Well actually that’s also true, it’s just irrelevant. I discovered who he’s working with, some group called Chimera. I managed to get hold of some of the files they’re keeping in this office I’m in. It seems they’re trying to set up sort of network. Something to do with computers, I think. I won’t lie, I don’t really get it. All I know is it doesn’t sound good and needs to be handled.” Curt explained.</p><p>“Computers hey? Hold on a second.” Said Cynthia before covering the receiver. “Barb, I think this one is for you.”</p><p>Curt listened for a few seconds at the rustling of the phone being exchanged. He rolled his eyes. He wanted to make a fuss about how he didn’t have time for this, but time seemed to be the least of his troubles.</p><p>“Curt?” He finally heard Barb asked.</p><p>“Barb, there you are.”</p><p>“Thank God you’re okay. I’ve been worried sick.”</p><p>“Don’t you mean ‘we’ve been worried sick’.” Curt smirked. He’d missed this little song and dance.</p><p>“I meant what I said.” Barb yelled with a rage Curt had never expected. He jumped back, but the moment was gone so quickly that he wasn’t sure if bringing it up would even be worth it. She was composed when she spoke again. “Now, what do you need?”</p><p>“I’m looking for some sort of island compound.”</p><p>“Can you give me any more information?”</p><p>“It’s…big?” He shrugged.</p><p>“You know, Curt, if I didn’t like you so much, I’d be letting you know what a pain in my ass you are.” She grumbled.</p><p>“Good job you like me then.” Curt smiled. “I’m afraid there’s not much more actually helpful information I can give. Most location-based details have been blanked out.”</p><p>“Yes, well that is how sensitive information is supposed to work I believe.” She sighed. “Okay, let me see what I can do.”</p><p>Curt waited several minutes as Barb searched for information with the limited equipment she had available. He spent the time making awkward small talk with Cynthia and Tatiana, but none of them had much to say and it did little to calm Curt’s nerves. He kept expecting to be ambushed at any second. Part of him hoped it would just happen, so it wasn’t waiting anymore. At least that would feel normal.</p><p>Eventually Barb came back with the correct information. Curt grabbed a scrap of paper and jotted the details down. It was going to be a struggle, especially without Michael’s, or Owen’s, planning skills. Still, he would manage. He had to manage. If he failed this, what right did he have to call himself an agent?</p><p>“Thanks Barb. You’re the best.” Curt smiled.</p><p>“Just doing my job.” She said sweetly. “Hey Curt.”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“Are you going to be okay?”</p><p>“I…” He wanted so badly to lie, to say that he was going to be just fine, better than fine even. But he couldn’t. Not now. Not after everything. “I don’t know. I guess we’ll have to find out together won’t we?”</p><p>“I suppose we will.” She said quietly. “Be safe agent.”</p><p>“No promises.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. The Choosing of Sides</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Curt attempts to make his escape, but one way or another Owen always finds him.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Content warning for mild implied suicidal ideation</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Armed with the information Barb had provided, Curt gathered his wits and snuck out of the compound. He had nothing now. No weapons, no plan, no real hope of return. He was walking the thin tightrope between hopefulness and hopelessness, which in Curt’s experience was where most agent’s best work was done. He crept out the back exit and trudged through the snow, which now swirled rapidly. The chill bit through him. He wasn’t remotely prepared for the sub-zero temperatures he was now being forced to endure. Still, he persevered, his footsteps crunching beneath him no more how lightly he trod. After a few minutes, he discovered a 1956 Land Rover, abandoned haphazardly by a cluster of trees. Curt sighed with relief was he steadily jogged towards it and let himself in. He looked around for the keys, finding them in the glove compartment. He jammed them into ignition. The engine spluttered but didn’t start. He groaned.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Can just one vehicle not fail me?</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>He tried twice more to no avail. He tightened his hands around the steering wheel and rested his head against the cold, black metal. Alone with the fate of everything he knew on the line and he couldn’t even get the bloody car to start. He let out a shout of frustration. A visceral, gut felt scream. It didn’t seem who heard him. If someone came along and shot him, at least then he would be free.</p><p>“Having trouble?” Curt’s heart stopped at the sound of Owen’s voice. He gulped and drew in a long, icy breath before his nerves were settled enough to straighten his back and look up. Owen smiled at him softly. His eyes were so warm, so gentle, and that ripped through his soul more than any unbridled rage. That look of pity made him sick with emotion.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Please just be mad at me. You deserve to be mad at me.</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>“It’s tricky. Has been since day one.” He continued.</p><p>“This is yours?” Curt asked. Of course. Just his luck to be drawn straight to something of Owen’s.</p><p>“Sure is. It was given to me as a sort of initiation gift. At the time I thought it was a nice ‘welcome to the team’ gesture, but now I honestly think they were just trying to get rid of the bloody thing. Still, I like to take care of it. I keep meaning to take it to the mechanic, but you know how life can get in the way of things.”</p><p>“More than you know.”</p><p>“Well, I suppose I always did have a love for broken things.” Owen shrugged. “Come on, move over.”</p><p>Curt huffed, but like always he obeyed and slid over to the passenger seat, entranced by Owen’s voice. Owen let himself into the vehicle and turned the key. Once again, the engine growled and coughed. He hit the dashboard. The noise of engine settled as it began to run smoothly.</p><p>“There we go. Just needed a little elbow grease.” Owen smiled.</p><p>“How long have you been following me?” Curt asked bluntly.</p><p>“The whole time. You took a lot longer in that office than I expected. I’m honestly surprised you didn’t notice me. Then again, stealth and observance has never been your strong points.”</p><p>“I don’t have many of those, do I? Strong points I mean.”</p><p>“Well…you have your charms.”</p><p>“Are you here to stop me?”</p><p>“No. I don’t think so.”</p><p>“Then what do you want?” Curt snapped.</p><p>“I’m not sure. To say goodbye, I suppose. We never got the chance last time.”</p><p>“When I killed you, you mean?” Curt mumbled.</p><p>“Yes, then.” Owen sighed.</p><p>“Owen, what Michael said…what <em>you</em> said, about forgiving me, was any of that true? Or was that all fake too?”</p><p>“I…don’t know.” He admitted. “Being around you, getting to see you as a stranger, made me feel so many things. Frustration at the person you can be. Pride at the person you try to be. Longing for the confident young man you used to be.”</p><p>Owen reached out his hand. Despite everything, Curt was compelled to take it. Owen’s fingers closed around his, intertwining, holding tight. Curt’s heart fluttered as a warmth in chest rose through him. Owen’s hands still felt like home.</p><p>“I don’t know if we can ever go back to exactly the way things were.” Owen explained. “But I know that I love you, Curt, even if it doesn’t make sense.”</p><p>“I love you too.” Curt replied, a shiver running through his voice.</p><p>“Then come back with me. It’ll be hard to get used to at first, I know it was Hell for me, but it’ll be different for you. We’ll have each other. I’ll be right by your side the whole time. Curt Mega and Owen Cavour together again. Nobody will dare touch us.”</p><p>“No.” Curt shook his head. “I have to stop you. I can’t let you put anyone in more danger than they’re already in. You of all people should know the importance of secrets.”</p><p>“Stubborn old Curt. So committed to your beliefs.” Owen huffed.</p><p>“They used to your beliefs too.” Curt reminded me.</p><p>“That was a long time ago. I don’t know what you’re trying to achieve. One man can’t stop an entire organisation. I’m not even sure what your plan is. You do have one, don’t you?”</p><p>“I was going to wing it.” Curt muttered.</p><p>“Of course you were.” Owen laughed. “I knew you were irresponsible, but I completely forgot how dangerously foolhardy you could be…I forgot how much I missed it.”</p><p>“Everyone has their favourite poison, right?” Curt shrugged.</p><p>“You were certainly mine…Curt, you’re not the hero here. And I’m not saying that to hurt you, I’m saying it because I love you. Even if you somehow get into that compound, you won’t be coming out again. If you do this, you’ll die Curt.”</p><p>“I’m not trying to be the hero, I’m just trying to do my job.”</p><p>“They don’t even care about you.” Owen insisted.</p><p>“I know, but I care about them. I’ve never said it, never let them know, but I do, and I’m going to protect them, even if it gets me killed.”</p><p>“God damnit.” Owen grumbled. He released Curt’s hand. Curt’s heart dropped. The space in his palm felt so cold now that it was empty. He waited for the sound of the door and the icy swirl of the wind. He counted the seconds before the love of his life walked into the night. But the moment never came. Instead Owen spoke again. It was just one quiet word, so soft, so simple, yet with more meaning than any outsider could ever know. “Alright.”</p><p>Curt look over to see Owen clinking on his seatbelt before sitting up straight and resting his hands firmly on the steering wheel.</p><p>“Alright?” Curt asked.</p><p>“It won’t make a difference. I highly doubt two people can do much more than one. Besides, Barb only gave you one location, and I don’t know them all. It’ll only slow things down, not stop them. But if you really insist on running headfirst into a death trap, you might benefit from having the traps co-creator with you.” He explained.</p><p>“Y-you’re helping?”</p><p>“Yes, I’m helping.”</p><p>“Great.” Curt smiled. “I knew you still had some that agency spirit in there.”</p><p>“It’s not for them.” Owen snapped. “No matter what happens, for the first of my life I will never do anything for them.”</p><p>“Then…what is it for?”</p><p>“For you, Curt. It’s always been for you.” He said softly. “Now put your bloody seatbelt on. It’s bad weather and it’s going to be difficult journey. The last thing we need is you getting wildly injured in a minor fender bender.”</p><p>Curt nodded and put his seatbelt on.</p><p>“I’m glad you’re not dead.” Curt smiled.</p><p>“I’m glad you were so incompetent at killing me.” Owen smirked as they pulled away.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Ocean Blue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Curt and Owen enjoy a moment of peace. A calm before the storm.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The next few days passed quietly as they drove without incident towards the ocean. They cut through borders with ease. As Michael, Owen had been considered a low-level pawn, a faceless nobody. As himself, he held more influence than Curt would have ever expected. He’d been busy over the last four years, climbing the ranks with expert precision.  With him, there were few issues. Nobody questioned why they were heading out in a junk land rover in the middle of a blizzard, nor why the man Owen had claimed to hate was now casually sitting in the passenger seat. This was the way of Chimera. A certain amount of hypocrisy was simply accepted.</p><p>After two days on the road, they reached a port. The snow had slowed, but it still floated in small flakes, drifting lazily to the ground. The port would have been beautiful in the summer. Curt imagined it bathed in warm sunlight, surrounded by people. It would make a perfect date spot. Yet he hadn’t been so lucky to find it at such a time. Now, at the opening of winter, it was dark and deserted. The cold, damp air wrapped itself around him, chilling him to his core, as Owen lead him to a white yacht. The back bore its name in black text: Sentinel.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Sentinel: Keeper, protector, watcher.</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>“This yours?” Asked Curt as he followed Owen aboard.</p><p>“No. I wish I was casually handed a yacht, but all I’ve officially been gifted is that charming gas guzzler. Everything is just…company property.” Owen explained.</p><p>“So, it’s chimera’s then?” Curt mumbled. He squirmed slightly. He wasn’t sure what he expected. Who else would Owen be getting his resources from? He ignored his discomfort. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. There was nothing wrong with the boat other than its owners.</p><p>“Sort of. Let’s just say they inherited it.” Owen shrugged. Curt bit the inside of his lip. Not just Chimera’s, somebody Chimera killed. He glanced at Owen as he prepared to leave. Had it been someone he’d killed? How had he spent the last four years to have risen so quickly?</p><p>They left the port. Land disappeared swiftly, disappearing behind the low clouds and light snow. Curt peered into the black water. Once again, he was passed the point of no return. Every chance of escape he’d been given over the last month had been rejected. Whatever happened to him now was surely fate.</p><p>“I always said I’d show you the ocean.” Owen smiled from the wheel as he caught Curt starring into the darkness. And he had. Their missions had taken them over all kinds of water. Long winding rivers, thick swamps, wild rapids. Everything but the ocean. Yet Owen had a fisherman uncle who seemed interested in meeting the man he talked so much about and Curt loved the idea of riding over the waves. They’d discussed endlessly the way the foam would shimmer, the fish they’d see, but the opportunity never arose. When he lost Owen, the idea of the sea no longer seemed so sweet.</p><p>“I kind of imagined it would be on our off time. Blue skies, warm waters, all that stuff.” Said Curt.</p><p>“A spy doesn’t get off time, Curt. You know that.”</p><p>“I know.” Curt shrugged. “But we imagined plenty of it.”</p><p>Owen nodded. All spies had imagined lives. They all wondered what they’d do if they hadn’t chosen that life, who’d they be. Curt and Owen would have never crossed paths if they weren’t spies, but they liked to beleive in private that they could have. Owen would have been an actor. Curt could never settle on what he would be. They would live in the country. They would see the ocean. They would stay far, far away from Russia.</p><p>A thick silence fell over the pair. The quiet of the ocean was unlike any on land. Without the buzz of vehicles or background human interaction, not a single sound stirred. A pin drop would sound like an explosion.</p><p>Since Owen came back, their conversations had been strained by a bitter uncertainty. Curt had believed talking to Owen would always be effortless, yet he felt himself second guessing every word. As strangers they’d been able to talk freely. The idea of long-term consequences had never even crossed their minds. As themselves, they found themselves in a strange dance, both unsure who was leading. There was so much that they could say, four years of unspoken words, a lifetime of things that they were meaning to say, but where to start? What do you say to a dead man? Owen dead in law, Curt dead in spirit. Though neither had a grave to visit, both had buried the other long ago. Owen was right, things could never go back to the way things were, but what would it be? Was this the epilogue to something that was over, or the prologue to something else entirely?</p><p>“Hey.” Curt looked up sharply at the soft sound of Owen’s voice. He needed to learn to stop doing that. “I spy with my little eye something being with…S.”</p><p>Curt rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t hide his smile. He’d never been good at I spy, but he could never resist it.</p><p>“Is it sea?” He asked.</p><p>“Well, there is plenty of it, but no. That’s not the answer.”</p><p>“Is it spy?”</p><p>“No. I see no spies here.”</p><p>“Yes, you do.” Curt scowled. “You might have divorced yourself from the whole system, Owen, but I’m still a spy. Not a good one, but a spy nevertheless.”</p><p>“Do you know the definition of a spy, Curt?” Asked Owen.</p><p>“Is this going to be some kind of Chimera adage?”</p><p>“No.” Owen huffed.</p><p>“Then no, do tell.”</p><p>“Spy, to watch secretly, usually for hostile purposes. But that’s not what you do. You steal bombs, you save lives, save the whole world. When I knew you, you did everything but watch secretly, though the hostility is a matter of perspective. You’re many things, old man, but you’re certainly no simple spy.”</p><p>“Then…what am I?” Curt asked.</p><p>“You’re…Curt Mega.” Owen smiled.</p><p>“Is that good?” He laughed.</p><p>“We’ll see.” Owen shrugged playfully. “And the answer was salt.”</p><p>“Oh, that’s cheating.” Curt exclaimed.</p><p>“Is not.” Owen protested. “We’re surrounded by salt.”</p><p>“Not that you can see. That’s like saying you spy something beginning with A and the answer being air.”</p><p>“I’ll bare that one in mind for the next round.”</p><p>“So country was a stupid guess for C, but salt is fine?” Curt laughed.</p><p>“Yes, all I have to do to see the salt is boil the water. Much harder to see a whole country.” Owen explained.</p><p>“I’m going to get you on another plane and fly it over an island and then we’ll see if that explanation still holds water.” Curt joked.</p><p>“Never for the rest of our lives are you getting me on a plane.”</p><p>They laughed together. For a moment everything felt right. It was almost normal, like they really had slipped into that alternate reality where all was well. Yet quickly the laughter faded as they remembered where they were and the bitter realisation of how short ‘the rest of their lives’ could be hit.</p><p>“Curt, you know the world has changed a lot since you’ve been away. Our world I mean.” Said Owen. His voice was soft, yet so firm. There was an undertone of seriousness that he only used when he truly believed their lives were in danger.</p><p>“I know.” Curt nodded.</p><p>“No, you don’t. I know you think you do but trust me. The enemies our agencies sent us after before, they were child’s play in comparison to Chimera.”</p><p>Curt gulped. He thought of all the times they’d nearly lost each other. Every bruise and burn and bullet, every scratch and cut. Love and luck had always spared them, but plenty hadn’t been so fortunate. They both new good people who had died in the field, many meeting fates that went undiscussed. If that was playing, what did business look like?</p><p>“Right. We can’t do things my way this time. I’m trusting that you have some sort of plan, or at least an idea of how we can build one.”</p><p>“Me?” Owen laughed. “This was your idea. Why would I have a plan?”</p><p>“You were always the one coming up with plans.”</p><p>“Yes, which you never followed.” Owen reminded him.</p><p>“It’s called being flexible. Besides, I was never my countries best agent, no matter what people tell me. You on the other hand…”</p><p>Owen sighed lightly. It was an exaggeration, of course, though he wasn’t sure if Curt was just trying to be sweet or if he really believed it. Still, he wasn’t going to stand there and argue with such a compliment. They’d wasted too much of their time on pity fights. He didn’t have a clear plan, there could never be a step by step guide for what they were trying to pull off, but they did have each other. With Owen’s unparalleled knowledge of the area and Curt’s unique brand of a flexibility, with were a force to be reckoned with.</p><p>“Alright then.” Owen nodded. “To business.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Preparation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>From the very beginning. Chimera was sure their operation couldn't be found by untrained eyes. Unfortunately for them, Curt and Owen are not untrained eyes.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>If you weren’t looking (and in some cases, even if you were) you probably wouldn’t find Chimera’s island facility. It didn’t exactly look like the average cold industrial compound that had come to be expected of such shady organisations. Instead it had traded the metal fences for high painted white walls, the featureless grey sides swapped for sturdy modern stone. An outsider would never suspect its sinister purpose. It could be a nice holiday home, if it wasn’t for what it held.</p><p>Curt may have been outsider, but he was still an agent. Where a civilian would see an oddly placed mansion, a trained eye could see a trap. Its walls were too high for even the most paranoid aristocrat. Its doors were just a little too heavy for the peaceful island paradise. And then there was that faint hum that drifted unquestioned across the sandy beaches, a sound that even someone as old fashioned as Curt recognised as the buzz of electronics.</p><p>Of course, none of these observations were ultimately unnecessary because Curt had a trick up his sleeve. While a decent agent accepts they’re an outsider and pieces together their surroundings through hints, a good agent embraces the fact they’re an outsider and grabs an insider to do their job for them. An insider such as an Owen.</p><p>“This is it?” Asked Curt, as they stood hidden in the shadows. The snow had not followed them there, but the wind still held a bitter chill. “Strange design. Sort of…tacky, if you ask me.”</p><p>“Don’t blame me. I didn’t design it. It wouldn’t look much better if I did. You were always the fashionable one.” Owen shrugged as he adjusted Curt’s collar. If they were going into battle together one last time, they were going to look good doing it.</p><p>“I wouldn’t waste my talents on some boring computer hub.” Curt smirked. “It’s strange getting ready for a mission with you again. It feels like just a week has passed since the last one.”</p><p>“It’s been three days since the last one, Curt.” Owen reminded him. Curt didn’t reply for a moment as he considered this. He hadn’t a chance to stop and think about it, but Owen had been with him for over a month. Longer even, as he wore a different name and different face. They’d already served two doomed missions together. One a disaster, one merely a half success. It was a fact that registered in theory, as a simple objective truth, but one that he struggled to process on any deeper level, as he struggled to reconcile the two men into one. Every insult and harsh word from Michael had come from Owen, but the same went for each kindness and compliment. How much had truly been Owen and how much had been his disguise? Without time to think it through, to comb through every word and subtle movement, every silent hint of an agent, there was only two options he could feasibly accept. One, that it was all truth. Two, that it was all lies. If it was all truth, then there was nothing more to be said. If it was all lies, then how could he be sure that the lie had ended?</p><p>“Third times the charm.” Curt replied at last.</p><p>Third time coming to together. Third time messing with Chimera. Third time with a chance to prove themselves to each other. But not really, not truly, because there had always been something to prove. Always something different. Whether it had been their resilience or their intelligence or their love, each mission had been overlined by that divisive <em>something.</em> Though neither of them mentioned it, both realised at the same thing simultaneously. The truth to why this mission felt so different. Not because it was the last, but because there was finally nothing to prove.</p><p>“That does beg the question of how we’re going to get from here to there without getting shot.” Said Curt.</p><p>“Ah, second rule of working for Chimera, love. Always have multiple contingency plans.” Owen smiled, as he expertly removed the loose sand from a nearby palm tree. Curt felt the urge to point out that this was a rule Owen had failed to follow several times that past month, with his ‘plans’ appearing more wild and on the fly than even his were in their heyday. Still rules were made to be broken. What worked, worked, even if the guidelines said it shouldn’t. Which lead him to another question.</p><p>“What was the first rule?”</p><p>“Never take Oleg’s chair. Believe me, that’s one I always follow.” He said, retrieving a sandy backpack from beneath the tree. It could have once been a dark blue, but time had faded to the colour closer to a light grey. Owen patted it gently, letting specks of dirt fall to the ground. “You want to know the real problem with Chimera, Curt?”</p><p>“I’m sure I could come up with a pretty long list.”</p><p>“The real problem with Chimera is that they think too big. It’s all very well looking at the big picture, but so many times it means they miss those tiny little details that actually make the bigger pictures significant. In trying to get their hands on three billion people’s secrets, they’ve completely overlooked those right next to them.” Owen explained.</p><p>“Right. I suppose trying to keep an eye on one person would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”</p><p>“Or one specific needle in a bunch of sharper, slightly different coloured needles, yes. The point is, while I never planned to back to MI6, I always knew there was a slim chance Chimera would completely screw me over and I’d need to leave in a hurry. I’ve had this and similar bags scattered all over the places for years. Everything I might need to escape through Hell and highwater. They never caught on.”</p><p>“Or they believed you’d never use it.” Curt countered. There was another option, of course. That they knew full well of the backpacks and Owen’s plan to use them if there was ever a need to jump ship. Chimera spun itself as a fresh invention to build the world a new, but for all its lies and promises, it was nothing more than an agency itself, and the base rules of all agencies were fundamentally the same. No matter how high up a person was or believed themselves to be, they were still expendable. Perhaps the only thing protecting Owen was that they were yet to realise his betrayal. That realisation would surely come soon enough.</p><p>This thought, like so many thoughts, stayed unsaid. They weren’t the words Owen needed to hear. They weren’t the words Curt needed to say. The knowledge that neither of them was invincible sat clear in their minds, but Owen still had the comfort of believing himself to be the man with the plan. Curt wasn’t going to take that away from him.</p><p>“Anyway, turns out the equipment you need to break your way off an island are very similar to the ones you need to break into a compound, average or otherwise.”</p><p>“Go figure.” Curt laughed. “Come on then, Houdini . What does the master of escapes have in his bag of wonders?”</p><p>“Well firstly.” Owen handed him a black pistol. New, never used. The weight signalled that it was already loaded. Owen followed it up with two full magazines. Curt tugged them away beneath his shirt for safe keeping. Eighteen bullets for him, the same for Owen. Thirty-six in total. Plenty to go around as long as they were careful.</p><p>“You really came prepared, huh?” Asked Curt.</p><p>“Well, I was anticipating quite a scrap, old boy.” Owen smiled.</p><p>“Then I’ll be sure not to let you down.”</p><p>“Curt my dear, this once you have my full permission to let me down.”</p><p>“You still haven’t explained how we’re going to inside.”</p><p>“Don’t worry, I’m getting to it.” Owen assured him. From the bag he lifted a thick, brown rope. Just like the pistols, it was brand new. It held no weakness or sign of fraying. It was the kind that could be near unbreakable when used correctly. Curt raised an eyebrow. In the right situation, good old-fashioned rope could outweigh the finest metals and gadgets in terms of usefulness, but he couldn’t see how this was ‘the right situation’.</p><p>“So, what, we’re going to scale the wall?”</p><p>“Don’t be ridiculous. They see anyone even attempting to climb that thing they’ll shoot first and we won’t live to hear the questions later.” Owen retorted as zipped up the bag and got up, slinging the dirty fabric over his shoulders.</p><p>“Then…what?” Asked Curt. Owen sighed and smirked as he pulled the rope tort.</p><p>“Curt Mega, do I have to re-teach you everything?”</p><p>“Hey now,” Curt blushed as he took a step back. “I know we’ve been apart for a while, but this is hardly the time or the place.”</p><p>“Don’t fool around.” Owen rolled his eyes. “Just come here and follow my lead.”</p><p>                                                              ----0----</p><p>The walk through the gap in the wall and down the drive towards the entrance was only short in reality, but it felt like an endless hike. The wooden doors sat back in a looming white stone arch way. Curt marched towards it, with Owen directly behind him, somehow simultaneously too close and too far away. The rope around his wrists was loose. So loose that it barely served the purpose of a facade. If he jerked too fast, it would tumble to the ground. Curt walked rigidly, focusing every fibre of his being to make sure that didn’t happen. Partially because he didn’t want to throw off Owen’s well-crafted plot, partially because he didn’t want to accidentally knock the cold barrel of the gun pressed close to his spine, close enough to kill. Just as the building wore its disguise as a lavish mansion, Owen maintained his disguise of a cold Chimera agent.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Unless, of course, it’s not a disguise.</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>He felt a warm hand on his shoulder. It only touched him lightly, making sure to stay hidden from the two-armed men at the door.</p><p>“Don’t worry, I’ve got your back.” Owen whispered, before gently pulling his hand away. Curt unclenched his jaw and let the tension drop from his back. Paranoia could be healthy for agents, at least in small doses, but it was misdirected. Owen was a master of the long game, but he wasn’t prone to wasting time. If he was playing a game, it would have ended in the New Democratic Republic of Old Socialist Prussian Sloviskia.</p><p>“Mr Cavour.” Said one of the guards. Both stood to attention. The one who had spoken was a tall beanpole of a man. He was young, barely twenty by the look of him, and Curt suspected Chimera had snatched him up before he was old enough to properly consider the decision he was making. The other was a chubby, middle aged man. He could have been mistaken, but Curt could swear he’d seen him before. Years ago, on a mission. On his side too. He must have suffered the same fate as Owen. Owen rolled his eyes. Stupid formalities. This little charade bored him every time. “I heard you were missing in action.”</p><p>“I don’t go missing, kid, I go undercover.” Owen pointed out.</p><p>“Of course. Sorry, Sir.” His eyes drifted to Curt. Curt quickly averted his gaze and focused on the floor, playing the role of the silent prisoner. The tightness in his chest only served to aid his act, his real anticipation blending in seamlessly with his fake fear. “Is that-“</p><p>“Yes, yes. He’s been giving us quite the run around. It’s taken me ages to drag him back to a Chimera base.” Owen replied dismissively.</p><p>“The famous Curt Mega in the flesh.” The other guard chuckled. “Never thought we’d see the day.”</p><p>“Famous?” Curt muttered aloud, unable to stop the thought escaping through his lips. What on Earth had Owen been saying about him? He felt a small nudge against his back, the signal for silence, and he was sure not to speak again.</p><p>“But…why did you bring him here of all places? It doesn’t seem like an ideal place to hold him.” The young guard commented.</p><p>“Are you going to stand there asking questions or are you going to open the door?” Owen scowled.</p><p>“Forgive him, Sir. He’s still learning.” The older guard cut in as he went to open the door. He shot a glare at his partner, who stayed by the now open entrance, his head now hung in shame.</p><p>“Thank you.” Owen nodded respectfully as he marched himself and Curt a few steps through the door. “Oh, and men?”</p><p>He swung around rapid, punching the middle-aged square in the side of his jaw. The man staggered back but managed to regain his footing. He reached for his gun and fired a shot, missing and hitting the frame of the door instead. Owen raised his gun and came down hard with both hands. This time the man collapsed to the ground, leaving him laying face first half in the doorway.</p><p>“The famous Curt Mega.” Curt repeated to himself with a smirk as he shook the rope free. It dropped to the ground in a long, neat coil.</p><p>“Oh, get over yourself. It’s not like I ever said anything nice.” Owen laughed.</p><p>“Wh-what’s going on?” The young guard stammered as he failed to retrieve his own gun with shaky hands. In his short time of training, the poor lad had likely never experienced real action. In a way, this was a good lesson for him, though he probably wouldn’t get to give it much use.</p><p>“Well, you’ve just been used for sport by two of the world’s greatest agents.” Owen smiled.</p><p>“And we’re about to shut this whole sick operation down, starting with this very nice facility of yours.” Curt continued, taking his place by Owen’s side.</p><p>“Undoubtedly killing countless men along the way.”</p><p>“And though we’re about to knock you out.”</p><p>“You’ll probably be one of the few who survive.”</p><p>“…So?” Asked the young man.</p><p>“So, your welcome.” Curt shrugged. He and Owen pulled their fists back to in unison, sending forward a hard punch than neither of them needed to discuss. The man fell back, unconscious and unmoving just like his mentor.</p><p>“Woo. Still got it.” Owen exclaimed.</p><p>“Still got it.” Curt nodded in confirmation.</p><p>“You know I almost feel bad. They’re nice men, all things considered.”</p><p>“I’m sure they’ll be fine. Do you think anyone heard us?” Asked Curt. Owen looked around, scanning the dark hallways. There was no noise but that deep electronic buzz radiating through the stillness.</p><p>“No. I don’t think so.”</p><p>“Then led the way.” Curt grinned as they snuck silently into the black.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sorry this one is longer than the others. I wanted to get a little more in there this time. Hope you enjoyed it. I'm nervous to actually write this mission, but I'm looking forward. Can't wait to see your comments.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. Rules of Engagement</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The battle for Chimera's island facility begins. Time to remember the golden rules.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>As you might have noticed the total number of chapters has now changed from unknown to 27. This number is provisional and not a definite final count since the chapter count keeps increasing, but even if there does end up being more chapters we are in the final stretch. This has been a fun ride and I'm sad it's coming to an end already, but it has a planned finale and I can feel we're nearly there. Until then though, come along on the rest of this adventure with me and share your thoughts in the comments below.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>From the outside, the world of espionage and agencies would appear to be complete ungoverned chaos. Yet like with almost all things, there was a code. A simple scientific method that everyone, on all sides, were on some subconscious level aware of.  Rules as clear as day. Anyone who wanted to live knew how to follow them. Anyone who wanted to live knew exactly how to break them. As far as Curt and Owen were aware there were precisely three golden rules to engaging with the enemy.</p><p>Rule one: Don’t.</p><p>Unless unavoidable, skip the enemy entirely and straight to taking down their plans before they even notice you’re there. Neither Curt nor Owen had been particularly good at following this rule. Their agencies had been rather neglectful when it came to training them at stealth, and while Chimera had helped fill in some of the blanks for Owen, they both still found themselves in the thick of it more often than they’d like to admit. Already once in this new mission, where everything was on the line, they’d broken the rule, though they struggled in good conscious to call the two men at the door enemies. Enemies implied some sort of threat. They had been a mere inconvenience.</p><p>The pair moved swiftly through the icy corridors, their breath swirling in a light white mist in front of them. The facade of warm home was abandoned on the inside. The floors were smooth and clinical, the walls were an ugly uniform blue that reminded them both far too much of hospitals, and the faint sterile smell of metal clung over every inch of the building.</p><p>“You could have at least paid for the heating.” Curt grumbled.</p><p>“It’s not <em>my</em> place, Curt.” Owen reminded him. “Besides, computers care little about the weather.”</p><p>“Oh sure, the computers don’t care, but what about the employees? There are clearly people here.”</p><p>“We all know better than to complain.”</p><p>Curt scowled but decided against pushing the issue further. The information was ultimately useless to him and he probably wouldn’t like whatever he received. Of all the lines of enquiry that would go unexplored in his life, and there would be a great many, he could live with this one.</p><p>Owen raised his hand, palm flat. Curt halted. The sound of paroling footsteps marched rhythmically towards them. Curt looked around. There was no easy out. He was sure if they headed forward they’d find a door, but not without running into the approaching threat. He reached for his gun. That brought them to rule two.</p><p>Rule two: If you must engage, be quick and be quiet.</p><p>The man who rounded the corner was given very little time to respond to what was happening around him, which was a shame because it was the exact sort of thing he’d been training for his whole life. Instead he got a split second to look up and acknowledge the two men poised to attack. In the moment between deciding whether to shoot or call for backup, he was already on the floor.</p><p>“Somebody definitely heard us that time, right?” Asked Curt. An alarm blared in response, the red emergency lighting serving only to offer the two intruders more illumination. Curt sighed. Somewhere in the darkness, his gunshot must have alerted someone close to a switch. Now everyone knew they were there. Still, he supposed he’d only broken half the rule. At least he’d been quick.</p><p>Rule three: Above all things, be efficient.  </p><p>Resource wise, they were doing better than they had been in weeks, with Owen’s supplies making up for Barb’s lost bag. Still, they couldn’t risk waste. Every lost bullet was an opportunity for the enemy to strike. Thirty-five bullets left, plenty in theory, but Curt knew better than to take a single shot for granted.</p><p>“Ready?” Asked Curt.</p><p>“Nope.” Owen smiled playfully as he readied his gun. In the brief second of peaceful preparation, Owen caught something in Curt’s eyes. Among the nerves and anticipation, a small glint of light. It was still distant but undeniably there. Curt Mega, back to life.</p><p>They strode forward, swiftly rounding the corner and firing at two rapidly approaching men. Their bullets hit true, but a ball of doubt filled Curt’s chest.</p><p>“Too quiet.” Owen muttered, picking up on Curt’s energy.</p><p>“Chimera is smart, right? They’re not going to just…charge at us.” Curt reasoned.</p><p>“Right…let’s just keep going. The sooner we’re out of here the better.” Owen nodded.</p><p>They crept forward, threading lightly, their soft footsteps barely audible. At last they found a wooden door. It was far from flimsy but wasn’t unmovably solid. Under normal circumstances, he’d be able to knock it down with ease. Still, there was no way he could do it quietly. Keeping to the silent shadows was the only hope of stealth they still had.</p><p>“Where does this lead?” Asked Curt.</p><p>“Eh, no clue. Haven’t exactly got a map.” Owen admitted.</p><p>“Alright. As long as we get out of the open, we can buy time. Got a key?”</p><p>“No, sorry.” Owen shrugged. Curt huffed and rolled his eyes. Of course, he packed plenty of bullets and one-use ropes, but didn’t think to pick up a simple key. “What? I don’t come here often. It’s not like I just carry the key around.”</p><p>“You better have something in that bag of yours.” Curt scowled.</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, hang on.” Owen threw his bag to the ground and rushed to rifle through its contents. Curt watched the empty corridor, tapping his foot impatiently as he watched the red lights cast shadows on the walls. Where was everyone? There should be people. He would be naïve to believe that Chimera had only sent five people. He kept his ears pricked for the echo of footsteps. There was movement in the dark, but so randomised, moving closer, then further away, then closer again, following no particular pattern. What were they playing at?</p><p>Owen thrust a small match box into Curt’s hand. Curt raised his eyebrow. He wasn’t above arson, but he couldn’t see how it would help in this particular situation. It would solve the problem of being stalked, though it would surely result in a different, more immediate problem. Still, he was willing to humour the man. He slid the box open to find a set of neat, metal bobby pins. Curt smiled and reached for a single pin, before handing the box back to Owen.</p><p>“I have actual matches as well. You know, just in case.” Owen smirked as he closed the back and rose to his feet.</p><p>“I’ll bare that in mind. Keep watch for me.” Curt turned to the door. The dim light created a challenge, but his training flowed through him. He was an agent, through and through, and this was what he’d been waiting for. Muscle memory kicked in and he moved with expert precision, making every second count.</p><p>Owen’s attention was caught by the distinct sound of a cold metal thud. He looked down to see a hissing, silver canister rolling towards him. The air around it smelt like burning. The dots connected in Owen’s head with no time to spare and nowhere to move to.</p><p>“Shit.” He shouted involuntarily. Curt, determined not be distracted, sped up his work as the cannister exploded, sending razor sharp shards of metal in all directions. Above the ringing in his ears, could hear the barked orders of their no longer hidden enemies, rapidly approaching. A closer, more alarming sound cut above the rest. A clear cry of pain from Owen. Curt winced in empathy but made sure not to take his eyes off the lock.</p><p>“Not much longer. Just cover for me.” Curt ordered. Thick, grey smoke filled the air, stealing the moisture from his throat and making near impossible to breath. He covered his mouth and worked through the streams of water coming from his red stinging eyes. Five men surrounded the door, blocking any possible escape. Owen raised his bag over him, shielding them both from the stray bullets. The hot balls of metal flew wildly with little sense of aim. They buried themselves in the floor and the walls. Two tore through the bag’s fabric and lodged themselves deep inside. One whizzed passed Curt splintered a section of the wooden door. It clipped the top of his ear as it flew, sending a river of warm blood trickling down the side of his face.  With one hand, Owen struggled to keep control of his own pistol. He fired blindly through the smoke, only able to guess whether he’d managed to hit anything.</p><p>Click.</p><p>At last the door was open. Curt shoved the twisted pin into his pocket and faced the chaos. Through the smoke and his blurry eyes, he could just make out Owen’s silhouette, struggling to control the situation.</p><p>“O-“ He tried to call out, but his throat was burning and any attempt to talk resulted in a coughing fit. He wheezed and lunged forward, managing to get a shaky grip of the back of Owen’s collar. He pulled Owen back, dragging him into the small box room, and slammed the door behind him. Bullets continued to crack their way through the wood. Curt and Owen both dropped to the ground. Curt managed to grab a dust sheet from a nearby shelving unit and scrunch it up at the bottom of the door, blocking out the smoke. Then, realising their attackers would soon give up firing at the door and trap them in the restricted space, he opted to push the whole structure in front of it. It would block the enemy out, at least for a time, but it would also block them in.</p><p>“Are you alright?” Owen spluttered as he coughed and struggled for breath. He filled his lungs with the musty air. It was far from clean, but anything was better than the smoke. They got to their feet as the firing stopped. Perhaps they had presumed the pair had died in the hail of gunfire or were at least too injured to be an immediate threat. The pair kept their voices low, trying not alert further suspicious. It wasn’t over, not until they were both out of the building or completely out of chances.</p><p>“I’m fine.” Said Curt as he wiped his eyes and bloody ear with his sleeve. The bleeding wouldn’t stop and the wound stung, but he’d worked with far worse. It was surprised how much of the human body could be sewn up post mission. He scanned around to try and get his bearings. The room had no light apart from what little was pouring in through the bullet holes. He could see just enough to see where they’d found themselves. Shelves and cleaning supplies lined the walls, a mop and bucket lay discarded on the floor, and here and there were small flecks of paint, long dried and forgotten.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>A cupboard. We’re going to die in a cupboard. All that work, just to be trapped in a little box.</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>“How about you? How are you holding up?” Asked Curt, expertly hiding his dismay.</p><p>“Me? I’m absolutely splendid, dear.” Owen panted through a forced smile; his teeth gritted through the pain. Even in the low light, Curt could see the beads of sweat running down his partner’s face. Curt took his hand, feeling his skin. His palms were cold and clammy. He looked down to see the metal from the cannister still dug into Owen’s leg. The fabric had been torn and what little remained was caked in dark blood. “Just a little blood loss. I can power through it. Wouldn’t be the first time.”</p><p>“Owen.” Curt said softly.</p><p>“It’s fine.” Owen chuckled.</p><p>“It’s not fine. You’re going to go into shock.” Curt scowled.</p><p>“Shock?” Owen laughed. “Nothing can shock me, Curt.”</p><p>“You know that isn’t how it works. Here let me help you.” Curt reached down to pull the metal out. Owen yanked himself away, letting go of Curt’s hand and stepping out of his reach before he had the chance. Curt straightened back up. He knew he could be stubborn, but so could Owen, especially when he was injured. Trying to interfere was a lost cause.</p><p>“Don’t. That’ll just make it worse.”</p><p>“Okay, okay. I won’t touch it.” Curt assured him. “What about the bag? The bag has to have some first aid supplies in it, right?”</p><p>“Ah…well…”</p><p>“Seriously, did your escape plan entirely consist of picking a few locks, climbing over a wall, and shooting people?”</p><p>“Not entirely…there’s also matches.”</p><p>“Oh, so you picked arson over first aid. That’s very helpful.” Curt snapped. A delirious smile spread across Owen’s face as he slumped down against the wall, a smile which soon turned to quiet laughter. “What is it? What’s so funny?”</p><p>“This is so us, isn’t it? Stuck in a cupboard, covered in blood, having an argument about our own incompetence.” Owen grinned.</p><p>“I suppose it is. It’s almost enough to make the last four years feel like nothing.” Curt smiled sadly.</p><p>“Almost.” Owen nodded.</p><p>“So, you’re sure we’re trapped then?”</p><p>“Pretty confident. Urgh, I can’t believe I’m going to die <em>again.</em>”</p><p>“It’s a rare feat. I’d take some pride that.” Curt shrugged.</p><p>“Yes. At least I get to die with you this time.”</p><p>Curt looked around, his eyes scanning every inch and corner for something that could help.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>We’re not giving up now. Not here. Not after everything.</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>His eyes fixed on a spot on the ceiling. Something up there stood out from the rest of the shadow.</p><p>There was a fourth, unspoken rule of engagement. One that even the most rational of agents found themselves falling back more often than they’d ever admit. Never underestimate the importance of sheer dumb luck. In just a few short minutes, luck had carried Curt and Owen further that it ever had before. Luck to have not been hit anywhere vital, luck to have found shelter (even if it did end up being their prison), and even after managing to trap themselves in a tiny, windowless space, they had the luck to be granted one last escape. A grate, leading to vent, just big enough to fit through.</p><p>“Hey Owen.”</p><p>“Hmm?” Owen mumbled.</p><p>“Do you think you can still climb?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“I know it’ll probably hurt, but if you tried, could you climb?” Curt prompted.</p><p>“Um…sure. Why?” Asked Owen. Curt smiled; his eyes locked onto their newfound path.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Not over yet.</em>
  </strong>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. Déjà vu</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>One last fight, one last plan, one last chance. It's the beginning of the end for somebody, but Curt can't be sure who.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Penultimate chapter, guys. It's going to be so weird not writing this.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Memories always had an annoying tendency of coming back to Owen at the strangest of times, overwhelming his senses with the bittersweet taste of nostalgia. As he was stood just under the vent, wombling haphazardly in Curt’s loose grip, a wave of warm déjà vu washed over them both, but only Owen could place it. This had all happened before.</p><p>Curt didn’t actually remember the first time they met. Sure, he claimed he did, in fact, Owen was sure he believed he did, but he always told the wrong story, where they found themselves stuck in the middle of the same bar fight. That was their second meeting. The first time they met, Owen had only completed three missions, that particular mission being his fourth, and he was already beginning to regret his decision. He should have been a bloody actor. He was hurt, lost, separated from his more experienced partner. If anyone caught him hiding in the vents, he would certainly die. For a brief moment, he thought he was going to go down in history as the world’s least competent spy. Then he realised how little time he’d been with the agency and realised he wouldn’t go down history at all. He wouldn’t even be remembered, not by MI6 at least.</p><p>Then came the rushed bangs of someone approaching, someone who either didn’t care about stealth or was just really, really bad at it. Suddenly, he wasn’t alone, and he knew he should probably try to defend himself, but for some reason he didn’t feel the need. The scruffy, wild eyed American who seemed to pay him no mind could be classed as many things, but a threat was not one.</p><p>“You. You’re with MI6, right? I saw you with that English woman.” It was a rushed introduction, one that had completely taken him off guard.</p><p>“I umm…” Shit, this definitely wasn’t covered in training.</p><p>“Awesome. Hold onto these for a second. I’m supposed to get them back to my team but I’m pretty sure my partner isn’t as trustworthy as he makes out.” Curt explained as he thrust a screwed-up piece of paper into Owen’s hands.</p><p>“Trusting your mission objective with a complete stranger. That’s a little risky isn’t it?” Asked Owen as he slipped the paper into his jacket pocket, opting to brush over the rest of the classified information that had just been freely given.</p><p>“Yes well, the English haven’t let me down so far.”</p><p>“Past performance doesn’t guarantee future results.”</p><p>“You can betray me if you like.” Curt shrugged. “I’d just be very disappointed if you did.”</p><p>“No…no I’ve got your back, as long as you’ve got mine.”</p><p>“Of course. Teamwork makes the dream work and all that other stuff they push on you during orientation.” Curt smiled. Even the darkness of the worst mission so far, that smile was a light. And for a moment, just for a moment, Owen felt safe in his strange and extremely sudden alliance.</p><p>But, like all moments, this respite was doomed to end. It ended as suddenly as it began, with the two of them crashing through the ceiling. Suddenly, it was back to the way things were. Back to fear, back to being convinced he was going to die. Owen didn’t remember much after that, which was probably for the best, but he did remember experiencing two other firsts that day. The annoyance of being held captive that would grow in time to be part of his routine and the sting of being separated.</p><p>Of course, he didn’t die that day, though he had no idea how he survived or escaped. He thought perhaps someone had helped him, someone other than his partner, but he could never be sure. In the end, they’d both out lived their officially assigned teammates. Curt by one mission, Owen by five. They’d met again in that bar. Owen had remembered, Curt had not. They’d grown older, though arguably not wiser. They’d fought and run and hid. They’d made mistakes. They’d felt the sting of separation. They’d met again. Owen remembered it all. This time the scruffy American really did have his back, as long as he had his.</p><p>“Any day now would be just fine.” Curt’s voice snapped him back to reality. He looked up to see he was still hovering under the vent.</p><p>“Sorry.” He hoisted himself up and crawled a few inches forward, leaving just enough room for Curt to grab hold of the side and join him. “Explain to me again when I need to go first?”</p><p>“You’re hurt, I need to keep an eye on you. Besides, you’re only one who’ll be able to tell if we’ve found something useful like a computer lab, rather than, you know, another cupboard.” Curt explained.</p><p>“Hmm, are you sure it’s not just because you like the view?” Owen smirked.</p><p>“Well, I won’t pretend that’s not part of it.” Curt smiled.</p><p>They snuck through the vents, completely undetected, until Owen came to a stop. He peered down into the dimly lit room below. White coated scientists swarmed below; unaware they were under surveillance. The blinking lights glowed orange and green and soft buzzing cut through the still air, warding off the silence.</p><p>“They seem to have forgotten about us quick.” Curt whispered.</p><p>“These guys wouldn’t have cared about all that. They’ll have trusted the guards to take care of it. For now, most of this building thinks we’re dead. We should probably keep it that way.”</p><p>“So, they don’t know how to fight?”</p><p>“That’s not what I said.” Owen grumbled as he carefully slid the grate aside. It let out a slight screech as metal dragged against metal. They froze, waiting for chaos to ensue. Seconds passed, nothing happened save for a few suspicious glances around the room. “Clear the room. Leave the computers to me.”</p><p>“What are you going to do?” Asked Curt.</p><p>“Boom.” Owen muttered with a smile.</p><p>“Boom? What do you mean b-“ Owen dropped down, lowing himself gracefully to the floor. Curt sighed.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Here we go again.</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>“Good evening.” Owen grinned he punched the unsuspecting scientist who was unfortunate enough to notice them first. Curt entered the scene just as the man dropped to the floor, alerting the six other people in the room.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Oh God, he’s finally cracked.</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>Curt wasn’t sure what he expected. Owen’s actions over the last month hardly screamed stable. He supposed he should be relieved that he was wearing his own face again. How long would he have hidden given the choice? Curt shook his head. This wasn’t the time to think about such things. There were more pressing issues, like the scientist charging at him from behind. Their struggle was over in a flash. One second a forearm was being pressed into Curt’s throat, the next the attacker had been flipped to the floor. Two gun shots from Owen signalled the fall of two more enemies. The bullets whizzed and ricocheted across the room, one barely missing Curt’s shoulder before burying itself in a computer terminal.</p><p>“Jesus, watch where your shooting.” Curt shouted.</p><p>“Oh please, I know exactly where I’m shooting. Don’t worry about the machines, they’ll be up in smoke in a few minutes anyway.”</p><p>“It’s not the machines I’m concerned about.” Curt scowled, ducking to avoid the stapler flying towards his head. “And you call me irresponsible.”</p><p>“You are, my dear. Turns out the reasons I hated you and the reasons I love you are remarkably similar.” Owen smiled as the stapler shattered to pieces on the ground.</p><p>“Well aren’t you sweet?” Curt laughed. He pulled at his own gun, but made note of the ricochet and opted not to take the same long ranged risk, instead waiting until the enemy was almost upon him before firing one single bullet into his forehead. The man behind was upon him too quickly for Curt to safely re-aim, so he reacted reflexively, striking him across the face with the gun in hand, sending blood and teeth scattering across the room as he fell. The one remaining scientist reached into a draw, pulling out their own handgun.</p><p>“Didn’t think to do that sooner?” Asked Curt.</p><p>“Really? You’re going to stand there and offer me pointers after all that?” The scientist snapped as he fumbled to load the gun.</p><p>“It could help.” Curt shrugged. “Listen, this isn’t about you. If we can trust you not to alert anyone maybe you can still-“ The bang of the now loaded gun offered an answer before he could even finish his proposal. The aim was off by a few inches, leaving the bullet to lodge itself into the back wall rather than a person.</p><p>“Well, don’t say we didn’t try.” Owen replied as he expertly returned fire, striking the scientist in the right temple.</p><p>“What a waste of good stapler.” Curt muttered.</p><p>“Nice work, love.”</p><p>“Couldn’t have done it without you.”</p><p>“Get a room.” One of the previously unconscious scientists groaned.</p><p>“Oh, shut up.” Owen huffed, delivering a swift kick to the man’s head and sending him back into restless sleep.</p><p>“So, ‘boom’. Care to elaborate on that?” Asked Curt as he reunited with Owen in the middle of the room.</p><p>“What? You didn’t think we were just going to pull a plug and that would be that did you?” Owen set his now torn and tattered bag down the blood covered ground and opened it once more.</p><p>“Well I was kind of hoping.” Curt admitted.</p><p>“Oh Curt. Sweet, optimistically naïve, Curt. Fights like this and men like us are forged in fire.” Owen grinned as he pulled out the explosive charges that had by some miracle survived the previous fire fight. “And operations like Chimera, they die in those same fires.”</p><p>Owen’s smile dropped as he watched the colour drain from Curt’s face.</p><p>“Hey.” Owen said softly. He slowly rose to his feet, making small deliberate movements like Curt was some frightened animal he didn’t want to spook. Curt backed away a few steps, his eyes locked on the bag, his legs shaking like a leaf.</p><p>“No.” Curt gulped.</p><p>“Curt-“</p><p>“No. Think of something else. There’s got to be something else.” He insisted.</p><p>“There isn’t, love. Please, we don’t have time.” Owen replied gently as he carefully approached.</p><p>“We can’t do this again. I can’t-“ A tight knot in his throat choked back his words. He could hardly think over the sound of his own heartbeat pounding his brain, racing, stealing his breath. He could still feel though. He could still feel that safe warmth of Owen’s hands wrapping over his and the comforting anchor of their foreheads pressed together. Owen’s calm, steady breathing reminded him how it was supposed to be done, bringing him back to reality. It told him where he was. The year was 1961, to 1957, and despite everything, he was okay. They were both okay.</p><p>“You know I’d never let you down.” Owen whispered.</p><p>“I know. But what if I let you down, just like I did before? That’s what got us here in the first place isn’t it?”</p><p>“Yes, it is. It got us <em>here</em>. Right here. And I <em>know</em> you won’t let me down, because you are so much better and so much more aware than you were before, in all the ways you can’t see.” Owen’s smile seemed to glow, a warm, gentle light in the darkness, guiding Curt home. “Look at me.” Owen continued as he lifted Curt’s chin, making sure their eyes met. “You are <em>my </em>Curt Mega. You are…stupid and brilliant and just…so many things. And we will get through this, as long as we have each other’s backs.”</p><p>“I love you, Owen. I wish I had said that more often.”</p><p>“Life is full of second chances, Curt. More than people realise. We’re going to have so, so many more chances to say it.” Owen assured his as he carefully pulled away. “Now, about those charges.”</p><p>“Right.” Curt nodded. He lifted his head, straightened his back, and kept control of his breathing, summoning strength from every fibre of his being. “Right. We’ve got this. Just tell me what you need.”</p><p>They set to work starting the charges. For all Owen’s past talk of loyalty to Chimera, Curt was sure he couldn’t have picked out all those perfect spots in the few days between his side switch and that very moment. Doubts run deep in smart men and Owen was far from an idiot. Contingency had never been as straight forward as bobby pins and bullets.</p><p>“What’s our record, love?” Owen asked as they worked their way through the hallways.</p><p>“Excuse me?”</p><p>“Well we didn’t exactly make it out within the time limit last time, did we? So, I’d argue that our record is still Berlin, 1956, at a remarkably impressive six minutes.” Owen reminded him.</p><p>“I suppose so.” Curt mumbled.</p><p>“Still think we can do it in five?”</p><p>“I…” Curt thought about it for a moment before shaking his head. “Set them for eight. I’m not taking any chances with you this time.”</p><p>“Ah you’re no fun.” Owen smiled. “I’m so proud of you.”</p><p>The final charge clicked into place. The harsh beeps of the countdown timers echoed across the building, cut through Curt’s core. That repetitive, high pitched sound that inevitably ended in destruction sent shivers down his spine, filling him with nausea, but he looked to Owen, so different now and somehow just the same, and new he’d be okay. They’d both be okay.</p><p>“So, that very clear and suspicious beeping. There’s no way they’re letting that slid, right?” Asked Curt.</p><p>“Oh, absolutely not.” Owen smirked, readying his gun.</p><p>“Didn’t think so.” He sighed.</p><p>“Hey…got your back.”</p><p>“Got your back.” Curt nodded.</p><p>“Oh, and Curt? In case I haven’t said enough, or in case you still don’t believe it, I love you too.”</p><p>Curt smiled but didn’t reply. At long last, everything that needed to be said had been. No more secrets, no more lies. It was only them, for the rest of their lives.</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>One last fight, Owen. One last fight.</em>
  </strong>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. The Inevitability of Forever</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>All's well that ends well. All ends.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Mission Number: 39252 Final Report.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Mission Objective: Successful.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Closing Statement: Agent Curt Mega, deceased.</strong>
</p><p>There were clear blue skies in Paris on the morning of June 26<sup>th</sup>, 1962. Birds sang harmoniously, as the fresh flower-scented air that signalled the start of a warm summer drifted across the city to a patient man, who sat alone at an outside table of a café. The man had well kept black hair that reached to halfway down his neck and fidgeting hands. Though he was dressed casually in a blue polo shirt and plain trousers, he seemed far too on edge for a man on a peaceful day out. The other patrons of the café paid little attention. They all had their own problems, their own fears that made them feel like a bomb could drop on them at any moment. They had no need to concern themselves with anybody else’s problems.</p><p>“The lunch menu, Sir. We have a special on today, tailored perfectly to your tastes I’d wager. And we have a friends and family discount, strictly off the books.” A French waiter slid him a menu. An untrained eye would never notice the discrepancies or the way the ‘menu’ was just a little too thick to comfortably fit in the black leather folder that held it, but the man was no untrained eye. He had once been described as one of the greatest spies in the world, though it had been a lie. He subtly pulled out an orange paper file from inside the sleeve and handed the black booklet back to the waiter.</p><p>“I don’t think we’ll be eating today. Thank you.”</p><p>“You owe me big time for this, Mega.” The waiter hissed; his accent noticeably much more American than before. Curt smiled. He knew that the informant would never have the cheek to try and get something out of him. Even if he did, what leverage did he have really? This whole favour was strictly off the books. No trails, no evidence, no more Curt Mega.</p><p>Regardless of what the informant did or didn’t do, he had other concerns. Concerns like the smiling man in a white shirt that approached his table with two ceramic mugs of steaming hot coffee. He still limped slightly, even so many months later, but they so used to it now that they’d almost forgotten things had ever been any different. Only in the moments when Curt let his mind wonder to darker places did he notice, and Owen did everything in his power to make sure those moments never lasted long.</p><p>“So?” Owen asked as he set Curt’s coffee down in front of him before lowering himself into his own seat opposite him.</p><p>“So what?” Curt smirked as he took a sip of his coffee. Black with two sugars, just the way he liked it.</p><p>“You know what. Did he do it?”</p><p>“He did it.” Curt nodded. “After months of laying low we are officially dead. Deader than dead in fact. We have been destroyed, obliterated, utterly deceased.”</p><p>“Well isn’t that a relief.” Owen laughed. “And how are you finding it? Death, I mean.”</p><p>“Expensive.” Curt shrugged nonchalantly. “And there’s a lot more pastries than I expected.”</p><p>“Yes well, there are worse things than expensive pastries, my dear.” Said Owen, taking a sip of his own coffee.</p><p>“I just…I just wish I could tell someone, you know? Just let them know we’re okay.” He admitted. “Even it was just one of them. Cynthia, Barb, my mum. Heck, even Tatiana. I didn’t know her well, but she seemed like a decent person. A cunning and honestly slightly frightening person, but decent. That’s hard to find these days.”</p><p>“I know, but this is for the best. If we went back, we be hunted until the day we died. Us and everyone we care about. As long as they think we’re dead, everyone gets to live their life. Besides, we know at the very least Tatiana will be fine. I spent half of my last death around her. That woman is pure fire. Fire doesn’t care about silly little men with their silly little missions.” Owen reminded him.</p><p>“We know better than anyone how much losing a loved one on mission can hurt, Owen.”</p><p>“I…can’t speak for your mother. I can’t speak for Cynthia either, really. I think she’s away trying to arrange a security system that can’t be exploited by one particularly determined Russian. I do have a slight idea about Barb and Tati. Barb is hurt, of course, she always did have a thing for you, but she’s a trooper, she’s powering through. As for Tati, well she stuck around. Higher ups wanted to go back on their word and press charges, but Cynthia wouldn’t have it. A deal is a deal. And she was seemingly quite impressed with the whole stunt. The woman’s got herself a job, a house, a whole life.”</p><p>“And her family?”</p><p>“Safe and sound in American.” Owen smiled. “Of course, we’ll have to wait and see if the Americans will manage to tame her, but I have faith.”</p><p>“Time will tell.” Curt sighed. “Hey how do you know all this?”</p><p>“You’re not the only one with friends willing to do things ‘strictly off the books’, Curt. I checked in. Just once I promise. Just to make sure everyone was okay.” He explained.</p><p>“Owen, that’s dangerous.” Curt scolded.</p><p>“Relax, danger is my middle name.” Owen laughed.</p><p>“Your middle names are Michael Alexander. Besides that’s hardly- wait…so that’s where you got it from.”</p><p>“Got what from?”</p><p>“I’m so stupid. I knew it felt familiar, I just thought with it was because it was common. You really are bad at coming up with fake names, aren’t you?”</p><p>“Everyone has their weaknesses, love.” Owen chuckled.</p><p>“Apparently so.” Curt nodded. He wrapped his hands around his coffee mug, letting it warm his palms. He watched the people pass by. All rushing, all unaware. Busy people with busy lives, letting the world run around and, for the most part, without them. They’d live their lives the same way now, blissfully ignorant of what was going own behind the curtain. Only not really. Uninformed wasn’t the same thing as unaware. They’d always feel something was wrong with the world and they would always be right. There was no chance of ever being true civilians, not in their hearts. Once the veil is lifted, there’s no putting it back down again.</p><p>“It’s still out there isn’t it? Chimera.” Curt asked solemnly.</p><p>“I imagine so yes.” Owen sighed.</p><p>“And the machine? The network, surveillance system, whatever the heck it is.”</p><p>“Is an inevitability I’m afraid. If not them then someone else. The Russians, the Germans. Heck, maybe even the Americans, should they suspect another country is going to get a shiny new toy before them.” Owen explained.</p><p>“So that’s what we’ve got to look forward to? All our secrets just…tumbling out into the open? Everything we are, everything we’ve worked for, all for nothing?”</p><p>“No. Not for nothing. Never for nothing.”</p><p>“Isn’t there anything we can do?” Curt asked insistently. Owen shook his head.</p><p>“You can’t fight the future, Curt. It will come no matter how much you buck against it. It came for the cavemen, it came for the Romans, and it will come for us in its time.”</p><p>“Right.” Curt grumbled. His eyes sank to the reflection in his black coffee. A little different again, as it was a tiny bit each day. His hair a little longer, his face a little older, and yet, somehow, his eyes a little brighter than they had been for the last four years.</p><p>“I don’t see why the future has to be such a bad thing. Maybe in a world where nobody can keep a secret, nobody will care. Maybe in the future nobody will need to hide.”</p><p>“Maybe.”</p><p>“Chin up, old man. The future isn’t here yet. Let’s just focus on the here and now. Right now, we are…” Owen smiled as he pulled the folder closer and looked through the contents. “Robert Brown and Alex West, esteemed business partners.”</p><p>“Partners.” Curt smiled.</p><p>“Yes, though I’m not sure how on board I am with the business. We are door salesman, apparently.”</p><p>“You mean door to door?” Curt raised an eyebrow. It didn’t seem like the greatest plan for men trying not to draw attention to themselves.</p><p>“No, I mean door. Selling doors.”</p><p>“Oh…don’t most buildings come with doors?”</p><p>“They have to get them from somewhere, Curt. Or should I say, Robert.”</p><p>“You should not.” Curt laughed.</p><p>“Come on. Drink up. We’ve got doors to sell and a home to decorate.”  Owen said, raising in mug. “Want to toast?”</p><p>“I don’t think you normally toast with coffee.”</p><p>“Rules are meant to be broken.” Owen shrugged. Curt rolled his eyes, unable to hide his smile. He let their cups softly meet, letting out a small, pleasant clink.</p><p>“To the future.” Curt smiled. “And all that comes before it.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Wow. I can't believe it's actually over. I'm not sure what I'm going to do with myself now I don't have updates to work on (probably actually do my uni work). Another big thanks to Tumblr user greathairandbadchoices (I don't know if he has an ao3 otherwise I'd direct you guys there), who partially inspired this AU, and ao3 user Just_AnotherFangirl, who took the time to find a Google Docs version of SAF script. And of course a big thanks to everyone who read this, whether you commented, left kudos, or just lurked in the background. I look forward to hearing from people in the comments one last time, whether you have thoughts on this chapter or on the story as a whole. Let me know your favourite part. I love hearing from you all.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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